Life with Bruce Wayne
by VictorianChik
Summary: As a young teenager, Dick Grayson shows what life is like with a superhero who also happens to be a stern guardian who doesn't like to be worried by his ward's carelessness. Warning: spanking in some chapters.
1. Trouble at Wayne Manor

AN: I've never written Batman fanfic before or really any comic book genre, so bear with me. I tried to research the characters before I starts but between the old comics and the new comics and the movies and the TV shows both animated and real people – well, it was a mess. So I borrowed from a lot and ignored what I couldn't use. Please don't judge on canon, because the story morphs each time someone invents a new medium for it.

I'm experimenting with POV as well. For those of you who read my Uncle Bobby story, you will recall how much fun I had with his voice. For this story, I wrote in Dick Grayson's voice, and again I had fun. I tried to make a clear distinction between Dick's dialogue and Bruce's, so tell me what you think and if it works.

I wanted this to be a short story, but I enjoyed it so much it might turn into a series. For those of you who keep up with my other stuff, I promise I will write more on older stories, especially the Supernatural one. But tell me if you would like this to turn into a longer series or if you're happy with it as it is.

Warning: does contain spanking of a young teenager. (You were expecting that, yes?)

Disclaimer: I do not own this or make a single penny.

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I'm not the smartest guy at my school. Heck, I'm not the smartest guy in my class. In fact, I'm say there are some ten year-olds that are a lot smarter than me. I'm not that smart, but I know better than anyone when Bruce is ticked off. I might say pissed off, but since it's my temper that got me into trouble in the first place, I'll just say ticked. Really ticked off. So ticked off that his usual calm look has become a frown, which became a scowl, which became a glare, which morphed into the most angry, frightening face I have ever seen. And believe me, I have seen some scary faces. You don't know fear until you've lived in Gotham City, and you don't know true terror until you've lived with Bruce Wayne.

I've lived with him for five years now, ever since my parents died, and I know he would never make me leave, but sometimes I get worried he'll get fed up with me and send me back to the foster care people for a while. This was one of those times.

I'm not really sure how it happened. One minute I was waiting in his study with my homework. I admit I've slacked off a little in the whole school area, but it's hard to care about studies when the greatest crime fighter in the world is training you to be his sidekick. No, more than a sidekick, he makes it sound like I'll be his partner. He's already let me ride with him in the Batmobile (which is so awesome I can barely stand it!), and he's talking about getting me an outfit so I can fight along side him without giving away my identity as Dick Grayson. So I blame all that for my poor grades. How can I be expected to pay attention in history when I know that night I will be prowling the streets of Gotham in that sleek, black car?

Of course, I don't dare bring that up or he'll consider stopping my training. I can just picture his face as he says, "Richard –" (I hate it when he calls me Richard in that slow, disapproving way) –"your studies come first. Always . . . no excuses." I always want to argue that crime-fighting should come first. Who cares about stupid English and spelling when you could be hunting down criminals and saving people? But if I point that out, he's all "You're only thirteen," and the whole I'm-your-guardian-and-I-know-best lecture starts. So, I stay quiet.

Anyway – where was I? Yeah, I'm in his study with my homework, waiting for him to come help me. And by "help me," I mean he sits behind his desk and I sit in front of it working, and ever few minutes he glances over to see my progress. And correct the mistakes. And tell me to think the problems through. And frown when I start fidgeting as the time to go on street patrol draws closer. Usually after these little study sessions, he tells me I'm making progress. But my grades seem to stay the same.

He had taken off work early today, leaving around two so he could get some work done at home, or so he had told the people he works with, I guess. What he really wanted to do was pick me up from school himself and lecture me on the way home about my grades because this was my last year of junior high, and he wanted to get me in a good preparatory school so I would be ready for college. I wanted to go Gotham High with my friends, but he wasn't really interested in my opinion. And then he asked about my last English test, and I told him what I got, and he got real quiet and drove without saying anything. And once we got home, he marched me into his study and sat me down and told me to get to work and said he would be in shortly to help me.

So, I was waiting there, putting off opening my books until I heard his footsteps in the hall and then I would throw the books open and pretend to be studying very hard. I was sitting there and then I notice he has this little box on his desk, all painted red and gold with an intricate lock on the front. I know I'm old enough to know not to touch other people's things. I know he's really respectful of my stuff, always knocking on my bedroom door before he comes in and never touching my schoolbooks without me there even though he owns the house and bought me the books. But this little box was begging "Touch me! Play with me! Try to open me!"

I picked it up and tried to open it. There were little knobs and latches and a number dial, and I couldn't get it open. I must have worked on it for ten minutes straight (which Bruce said was a miracle that I could pay attention to something for that long. A week ago, I heard him tell Alfred he wanted to have me tested for ADD, which is ridiculous because I can pay attention when I want to.) So – where was I? Oh, yeah, the stupid little box.

I could not get it open. I tried everything, turning the knobs, and twisting the dials – nothing! I got more and more frustrating, and then I jerked back in my seat, and my right knee hit the side of Bruce's desk. I don't think I'm whiny or a baby or anything, but I swear my knees are so sensitive. My dad used to tickle me when I was little, and it was all fun and games until he squeezed my knees and I would go crazy, howling with laughter. When I was seven, I tried to do two flips in the air, and I ended up falling down straight on my kneecaps. I terrified the whole circus troupe with my insane screams.

So when I hit the desk, I didn't even think. I just threw the box at the wall with a yell of angry frustration and pain.

I remember seeing the box hurl through the wall, and I remember having enough time to think "_Hey! Bruce probably won't like me throwing his stuff at walls_," when the wall exploded.

One minute, a little red and gold box was whirling through the air, and the next minute the wall blew itself up. I felt the heat and tumbled out of my chair to the floor, to curl up and cover my head like Bruce had taught me when I see or hear an explosion. Pieces of the wall rained down around me as smoke, dust, ask, and plaster filled the air. Through the haze I thought I could see into the room on the other side of the study, a sitting room that we never use. As the debris kept floating down, I stood up and marveled at the hole in the wall – at least seven feet high and eight feet wide, big enough to drive the Batmobile through.

The door to the study banged open, and Bruce came running through, looking frantic and panicky, very different the Bruce I know.

"What happened?" he demanded. "The wall – Dick, are you all right? What happened? Dick?"

He grabbed me by the arm and pulled me away from the mess before I could speak. He ran his hands over my arms, pushing my head back and forth to examine my neck, and then spun me around to examine my back to make sure I wasn't sporting gapping wounds or burn marks. As he searched, I saw Alfred hurry in, also very concerned. He looked horrified at the sight of Bruce's study, but before Alfred could say anything, Bruce spun me around again and demanded,

"What happened?"

"I didn't mean to," I stammered, my heart still pounding madly. Now that everything was settling down in piles of filthy ashes, I realized how scared I had been. "It just . . . I didn't know –"

"Richard Grayson," Bruce's voice went down to his Batman growl, the voice that usually terrifies criminals, and I wasn't feeling too safe at the moment either, "what happened?"

"I was looking at the box," I confessed, wishing I could shake his hands off my shoulders. I never minded when Bruce touched me – in fact, I liked it when he put his hand on my arm or ran a hand over my messy hair. But this was his you-look-at-me-when-I-talk-to-you grip, and I kept stammering, "I hit my knee, and I dropped the box."

"You dropped it?" Bruce questioned sternly.

"Okay, I threw it," I admitted. "I thought it would just bounce off the wall and land on the carpet, but then the wall exploded."

Bruce looked torn between tearing my head off and hugging me. I could see the debate play on his face as he tightened his fingers on my shoulder and drew me a little closer.

"You threw a box that you did not know what was inside? You threw a box that your found on my desk in my study and you threw it at my wall because you couldn't control your temper?"

"My knee really hurt," I protested, knowing how whiny I sounded.

"Then you should have put the box down and gone to get some ice," Bruce's tone was like ice itself.

I looked back at the broken wall. I could see the room from the other side, the picture that had hung on the other side of the wall now laying in broken pieces on the floor.

"What was in the box?" I whispered.

"Some kind of bomb, I guess," Bruce glanced to Alfred.

Alfred looked very worried as he confessed, "I found the box in the backseat of the Batmobile. It had a handwritten note addressed _To Batman, With all my love, Yours Truly_. I guessed that it was some female admirer of Batman, especially with the drawn hearts on the edge of the card. I put it in here, thinking you would want to have a look at it, sir."

"Obviously, I was meant to open it and have a rather nasty surprise," Bruce said quietly

A horrified thrill ran through me as I thought of Bruce finding a way to open the little box, pulling up the lid slowly and then –

I felt tears prick the corners of my eyes, and I didn't want Bruce to see me cry. "I'm sorry," I said in a rush. "I didn't know."

"I apologize as well, sir," Alfred hurried to add. "Most careless of me, especially with a child in the house."

Any other time, I would have bristled at being called a child when I was thirteen, only five months from fourteen in fact! But then I could only think about how scared I was and how I could have been hurt and how Bruce could have been killed.

I tried to pull away from Bruce. Maybe to run up to my room, maybe to run right out the front door and off the property. But Bruce wouldn't let go of me.

"Calm down, Dick," he said, still calm and collected. "I would never try to open a box like that, not with the long list of enemies I have. I would have taken it to the cave and probably x-rayed it first to see what was inside. I wouldn't have been in any danger. But you –"

He looked down at me, and my insides flip-flopped. I had seen that look before, knew what I meant. He had given it to me only three times in the last four years: once when I tried to run away after living at the Manor for two months and he searched all night to find me, once when I refused to apologize after I called him a mean name in a fit of anger, and once when I received my half-year grades for the sixth grade and there were two Ds and an F on the sheet. All those times had him giving me the look, and each time ended the same way, him all stern and lecturing and me with my eyes full of tears and my rear aching. I had a very bad feeling this was going to be one of those times.

"Bruce, I'm sorry," I said in a rush. "I was bored with waiting for you, and I just grabbed the box without thinking. And then I got mad and threw it again without thinking about it. I never meant to throw it, and I would never have thrown it if I knew it was a bomb – I wouldn't have touched it ever!"

"I know, Dick," Bruce said in a quiet, sad voice. "But the fact remains you did throw it. If we were different, if we were just a millionaire and his ward, I would be upset that you were touching and throwing my things, but I would just have you do some extra chores to make up for replacing the items. But we aren't just a millionaire and his ward. You know who I am, and you know who I want you to be in the future. I can't just let this go."

I pressed my lips together, trying to stop them from trembling. I can take anything except Bruce being disappointed in me. Bruce yelling, Bruce upset, Bruce ready to take my head off – fine. But Bruce all solemn and quietly disappointed, as if I had broken his trust in me – well, it just tore me to shreds. I felt my eyes fill with tears, and I sniffed without meaning to. His study was a mess, his desk chair had been broken into three jagged pieces, and his papers on the desk were dirty and covered with ash, including my homework. Everything was a wreck, and I was about to be, too, and I wished Alfred and Bruce would look away so they wouldn't see me crying.

"Dick," Bruce's gentle voice nearly ripped right through me – I couldn't stand for him to be nice to me after I had been such a pain, "Dick, why don't you go upstairs and take a shower? Then get dressed for supper, but wait for me in your room. I'll be up in a little while."

I nodded, seeing his head blur through a haze of tears, and stumbled for the door. I made it into the hallway, and almost up three steps of the huge marble staircase, when I felt so dizzy I had to grab for the banister. It felt like all the blood drained from my head, and I wanted to be sick, and my hands were shaking, and I was unbelievably hot and cold, and my legs wouldn't work as I stood there trembling.

"Ah, now, Master Grayson," I heard Alfred's voice at my side. He usually called me Master Richard or Master Dick when Bruce was away and he was watching out for me until Bruce came home. But in times of worry or concern, he reverted back to the name he gave me when I first moved in. "It's quite all right, young sir. Just a bit frightened from the accident, but we all were. Sometimes I forget how dangerous Master Bruce's life can be, and how careful we must all act."

As he spoke in that soothing tone, he reached under my left arm and put both his hands on my torso to steady me. He began walking me up the stairs, still talking to me in that soft voice. Any other time, I would have jerked away in anger, mad that he was treating me like a little kid. But I was so happy to have him supporting me all the way up those long stairs and then down the hallway to my room. Once we reached my bathroom, he sat me down on the closed toilet lid, and I sat dumbly as I watched him fill up my tub with hot water. I've never taken a bath in it, always taking a shower instead, but a hot bath seemed better than anything at the moment, and I gazed at the rising water, ready to lay back in it and try to calm down.

Alfred helped me get my shirt and shoes off. Bruce likes me to wear ironed, button-down shirts instead of cotton tee shirts, so I compromise, wearing the nice shirts on the weekdays and my comfortable tee shirts on the weekends. This was Tuesday afternoon, so I had on the buttoned shirt, and I was glad for Alfred's help or I might have never gotten the stupid thing off.

He turned away, and I managed to get my pants and boxers off without help. I slid into the tub, sighing as the hot water closed over my body all the way up my neck. I lay there for a few minutes, pushing back tears and trying to relax. Alfred moved about the room, pretending to clean up though I knew he was really staying to make sure I didn't drown in the water. But he respected my privacy, staying far enough back to let me calm down and then start to wash.

Except for the soot and ash, I wasn't that dirty. I'm never really dirty, what with living the great life at the manor, and the only time I really need to shower is after a long night out with Batman, but I washed anyway. No reason to make Bruce any more upset.

Once I was finished washing, Alfred handed me a towel. I wrapped it around me, almost like a huge cape, and headed to my room. I dressed in a nice shirt and nice pants, even tucking my shirt in and wearing the shiny leather shoes Bruce brought me from Europe. I even parted my wet hair and combed it straight, looking completely stupid and dorky, but he likes me looking that way, like I really belong in the Manor.

All dressed up, I sat down on my big bed and waited. When Bruce tells me to wait in my room, he means to sit still on my bed and think about what I did wrong that he's about to yell at me for. He doesn't mean goof around or read a book or play with my Gameboy – he means sit and wait.

So there I sat, waiting.

Time moves really slow when I'm in class, crawls by when I'm in English and ready to go to lunch. But I swear, when I'm in my room waiting for Bruce, it stops altogether. The long hand does not move on the clock by my bed and I want to check it to see if it's broken, but I don't dare get off the bed.

And I've waited for things. I've waited with Batman in the Batmobile for criminals. I've waited at the parties Bruce has, shaking hands and listening to boring people until Bruce says I can leave. Last Christmas, I laid in bed and waited for the sun to come up before I could wake Bruce to open presents even though I knew he was getting me a Playstation3 though he said it was a waste of money and time and I would go blind watching it. And he made me wait until after breakfast to play it though I wanted to start right there in the middle of all the wrapping paper.

So I know about waiting. But this was hardly good waiting.

I heard footsteps in the hall. I held my breath, wondering if it was Alfred, and I hoped it was and I hoped it wasn't because that would mean I would have to wait longer.

A tap sounded on the door. It was Bruce.

I wanted to holler "_Go away_!" But instead, I said softly, "Come in."

Bruce came in and shut the door behind him very quietly. I squirmed a little on the bed.

"Bruce –" I began.

"No, Dick," he shook his head, "no excuses. I hope that this time has given you time to think about what you did."

"I'm sorry about the study," I confessed in a rush.

"This isn't about the study," Bruce replied gravely. "What is this about?"

Oh, the questions! I hate the questions, especially the ones where I have to think about what I did to displease him. I could brace myself for yelling, but thinking . . . I'm not so good at that.

"Touching your stuff?" I hazarded another guess. That was a big deal, especially five years ago when I ended up breaking everything of his I touched include his watches, computers, and expensive vases.

"Yes, but what else?"

"Not starting my homework?"

He sighed, so I knew I wasn't any good at coming up with the right answer any more than I was at staying out of trouble. "More than that, Dick. It's your whole attitude. You don't listen to me, you disobey me, and you keep acting out just to get attention."

"I do not!" I declared hotly.

"I know I didn't set down that many rules when you came to live here," Bruce continued as if I had not interrupted. "I didn't have to – apart from that one time you ran away, you were a good child, doing whatever I told you and listening to Alfred. But now," he shook his head, "you've changed."

"Yeah," I crossed my arms. "I'm not eight anymore. I'm thirteen. I'm a teenager. I shouldn't have to do everything you say – I can take care of myself."

"No, you can't," Bruce replied. "You could have been killed in there, just because you were bored and decided to play around instead of doing your homework."

"That's not fair," I countered. "Most people who play around don't end up blowing up walls because they don't do their homework, but I get blamed for it!" That probably made no sense, but I admit I don't make a lot of sense when I get upset, especially upset at Bruce. He's so calm and rational that it makes me feel confused and I blurt out about anything. "You blame me for everything. Anything goes wrong – 'Where's Dick?' Because I'm the only kid, everyone yells at me. You're just mean and unfair, and I hate it!"

"Richard," Bruce's eyes held a warning.

"Well, I do," I said, but in a much lower tone. I felt the tears stinging my eyes again, and I wanted to stomp my foot and keep yelling.

"You do not raise your voice to me," Bruce said in the same stern voice. "You do not throw things. You do not ignore what I tell you. You DO NOT disobey me. Ever."

Bruce sat down on the bed (my bed!) and motioned for me to come to him.

I knew what was about to happen. I knew from the moment he sent me upstairs, but I hated for it to happen, and I almost hated him for doing it, and I hated myself for almost hating him.

"Bru-u-uce!" I protested, making his name three syllables long.

"Come here," he held out an insistent hand.

I took two steps towards him. "I'm too old," I whined. "No one gets . . . you know. Not at thirteen! No body!"

"Grounding or lost privileges hardly seems appropriate for all you've done," Bruce decided.

I saw the resolve in his eyes, the same resolve that makes him chase down criminals through the darkest night, that makes him such a good warrior, that makes my stomach churn when he looks like that at me. I tried one last desperate attempt.

"I'll run away. And I won't come back ever!"

A look of surprised fear came over his face. Quicker than I could see, he lunged forward and caught my wrist. He yanked me forward, over his knees, and held me tight against his side. "You just earned yourself a longer punishment," he growled. "I was going to spank you for a short while and then ground you for two weeks, but I'll double that spanking and take away your Playstation as long as you're grounded."

"Aw," I complained, but not too loudly. I hated laying over his lap, his hard knees holding up my torso while my legs hung loosely down, not long enough to touch the floor. His left arm felt like a vise around my stomach, but I knew wiggling would only make him madder.

"You never threaten me with running away," Bruce brought his hand down on my rear without warning, the sound of the slap cracking through the room. I gasped – I had forgotten how hard he could spank, even over my pants. But he didn't care, and he kept spanking as he lectured me.

"You don't blackmail me, Dick. You don't try to force me into doing or not doing something because of your own selfish reasons. I don't do that to you."

"You're spanking me!" I wailed, twisting as he rained down sharp slaps on my behind.

"Because you disobeyed me," he answered, not missing a beat or rather a smack. "This is a punishment, not blackmail. Do I threaten to send you away if you don't do your homework or get to bed on time?"

"No," I felt the tears gathering up, stronger and more painful than ever.

"What if I did?" Bruce challenged, making his spanks slow and hard to get his point across. "Or even worse, what if I used that to serve my own selfishness? 'You have to like me or I'm kicking you out'? 'Make me look good or I'm sending you back to foster care'? 'Call me Dad or out you go'?"

The last one shocked me. I was just his ward. I never expected him to think about it that way, much less want me to call him that. But the whacks continued, driving everything out of my head but my stinging rear and Bruce's stern voice.

"This attitude ends now. I mean it. You are going to do better in school. You are going to apply yourself, both as a student and as Batman's future partner. You're going to act your age. I'm not having you grow up to be some spoiled brat thanks to a thoughtless millionaire who gave you too much and never expected you to behave. Yes, you have a nice home and expensive toys which I probably shouldn't have given you, but I did, and you are going to shape up, or out they go! You are going to obey me, and don't you ever scare me like that again, or you'll be the sorriest boy in Gotham, and I mean it!"

I was writing on his lap. Man, how could he spank me so long and hard? Didn't his hand hurt? But I didn't dare ask him, or he might start smacking me with something else. "I'm sorry," I blurted out.

"For what?" Bruce demanded.

"For playing around," I replied. I had my hands twisted in the comforter, holding on for dear life. "For not obeying you. For scaring you. For – for – for being such a bother."

And then I pretty much lost it. I burst into tears, just letting them all come pouring out as I screwed my eyes up tight and lifted my face to wail. "I'm sorry!" I cried. "I'm sorry, Br-Bruce! I didn't mean to!"

I felt him pull me up, his hands around my waist. I couldn't see through the tears, but I expected him to make me stand in front of him while he lectured for a while. I just wanted to get away from him, to find somewhere to hide while I fought my embarrassment at bawling like a baby in front of him. I could hardly breathe through the tears and my heavy gasps for air.

He was pulling me somewhere, I couldn't begin to guess where. And then I felt his knee under my stinging bottom. Strong arms wrapped around my shoulders, and I was pulled into a warm, solid chest.

I didn't even think; I pulled my arms free and wrapped them around that firm chest and buried my face into his expensive shirt, still sobbing.

"Shh," Bruce hushed me. "It's okay, calm down. You understand why I had to do that, but it's behind us now."

"I'm sorry," my muffled protest came from the middle of his chest.

"I know you are," I felt him nod. "But you scared me so bad. I know that bomb wasn't your fault, but what if something had happened to you, Dick? What would I do then? The same goes for your attitude. What if I let you keep acting so careless and you start disobeying me all the time, and suddenly you won't do anything I ask? How could I ever trust you then?"

I guess he was trying to comfort me, but these words hurt almost as much as the spanking. I started crying harder. He just tightened his grip around me. We sat like that for a few minutes as I cried out everything I had, everything I felt, everything I was. Then I felt one of his hands rub my back. He used his knuckles, rubbing them over my tight shoulders and down my back to help me calm down and relax. He ran his other hand over my hair, messing up the neat combing I had done earlier.

I took another few minutes, selfishly enjoying his attention (and I thought it was fair that he hold me after spanking me so long and hard!). However, eventually, I sniffed and sat up, rubbing a hand over my wet face.

"Okay," Bruce helped me stand, but still kept a hand on my arm. "You're a good boy, and I know you're going to try harder, aren't you?"

"Yes, sir," I nodded.

"We'll talk about what happened next a little later," Bruce promised. "For now, I want you to go wash your face and hands and get ready for supper. We're having a guest tonight."

I stared at him, horrified. He lectured me and spanked me and held me while I cried, and now he expected me to join him and a guest for supper? I wanted to curl up on my bed for the rest of the night, not try to remember my manners and sit still on the hard dining room chair while making small talk to some guest.

"Bruce," I began, but he held up a warning finger.

"No, Dick, you're joining us for supper. You'll be polite and well-mannered, or I'm dragging you up here for a second dose. All right?"

"Fine," I huffed, frowning but taking care not to pout. Bruce did not like pouting or sulking or mean looks, especially from me. "Who's coming?"

"Selina Kyle."

"I don't like her," I sniffed back the last of my tears.

Bruce raised his eyebrows, amazed at my insolence towards the sophisticated businesswoman.

"What? I don't have to like everyone! You don't like everyone – I heard you telling Alfred that sometimes you don't like the way Commissioner Gordon runs the city."

"That's different," Bruce said, a small frown on his own face. "And you know it. Miss Kyle is a very nice woman, and I like seeing her every now and then when Batman finally has a night off. And you better behave for tonight."

"I will," I agreed glumly. I went to turn to go back to the bathroom, but he caught my hand and held me back while he stood. He put both hands on my shoulders and looked down at me, straight in the eye. "I meant what I said, Dick. I couldn't lose you. You know that, right? You understand how much you mean to me, how much you're part of my life and Alfred's?"

I nodded, feeling peace settle down on my heavy emotions. I meant to appear all cool and grown-up, but then I impulsively reached forward and hugged him. I only come up to his shoulders, but I squeezed my arms around his stomach to show him I wasn't mad and that he meant a lot to me too.

He put his hand on the back of my neck, squeezed once, and then I felt him straighten.

"Good boy, now go get ready."

"Fine," I muttered as I walked away towards the bathroom. "I'll go get ready for old Selina. I don't like her, though. She always giving me sideways looks, like she's a cat and I'm some dumb little bird she'd like to eat."

"Dick," Bruce warned, but he sounded more exasperated than really mad.

"I'll behave," I called to him. And I shut the bathroom door just hard enough to let him know that I still didn't like her, but I would behave, if only for him.


	2. Dinner with Selina

AN: I promise I'm not neglecting my other stories, but I was watching the new Dark Knight previews on and I just had to write more on this story. Hope you all enjoy.

Warning: Mild Language

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

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Dinner was a disaster.

Maybe that's too bare a statement or ruins the suspense to say it right off like that. My English teacher at school says good writers build up the suspense for a while and let the reader guess what's going to happen and give them clues, too. He told me this after I approached him with my paper which had a big C- in green ink at the top. (All the teachers use green ink to help us feel better about our grades. Yeah, right – like a C- is better in green ink than in red!)

"Dick," Mr. Horton said, shaking his head sadly like he was really disappointed that the ward of Gotham's billionaire made such bad mistakes, "you need to draw out the tension longer. Look at your first line – 'What did I do this summer? I went to a museum.' Then you spend the next two pages giving hints about where you went. 'A building with lots of marble,' 'has many rooms,' 'even has a gift shop to buy stuff – guess what it was.' You already told us it's a museum!"

I was supposed to show Bruce that paper; instead, I ripped it into two in the hallway and flung it in the trash when Mr. Horton closed his door.

But back to dinner – not good at all. Very, very bad - possibly the worst dinner I have ever gone to, and that's including the time we were eating with the troupe and we had boiled okra and I choked on it and globs of green, stringy slime spewed out of my mouth. No one too a bite of okra after that.

We did not eat okra tonight so that was one good thing. We had some kind of beef in a weird sauce – Alfred's always coming up with crazy food for us to eat. When I first came here, I didn't want to have the weird stuff, but Bruce said if I was old enough to sit at the dining room table and stay up for a little while afterwards, I had to eat whatever was served. Otherwise I could eat in my room and go straight to bed right after, just like some dumb little kid. So I chose to eat at the table with Bruce and I learned to choke down stuff like duck and mussels and liver and even something nasty like broccoli salad. I would choose hamburgers or hotdogs for a great supper, but Alfred doesn't serve a lot of those.

But maybe I'm still telling the story wrong. Bruce always tells me to start at the beginning, not to jump all over. I guess dinner really started that evening when we went downstairs after our – uh, talk. We came down at seven, but Selina wasn't arriving until eight. I was hoping Bruce might let me play on the computer for a few minutes, but he parked me in a chair next to a desk and made me start on the homework that didn't get blown up.

My butt was still aching, and I tried to hide it, but he didn't care. He made me open up my English notebook, and he looked at every page inside.

"Those are all of the papers since September," I protested. "A lot you've already seen."

"Then you won't mind me having a second glance through them," Bruce shot back. "Be quiet while I go through them."

I sat, trying not to squirm on the hard chair, while he frowned over the papers. His frown deepened with each turn of a page until he was scowling his fiercest Batman scowl at me.

"All right, Dick, I think I understand the C average in English now."

"Mr. Horton's got it in for me!" I replied. "He wants to make an example of me to the whole class. He even said that once to the whole class!"

"Did he say he wanted you to live up to your potential?" Bruce was not impressed with my sad story. "Did he say it was a shame that the boy who has everything can't find time to do his homework?"

"Something like that," I muttered. I didn't like it when Bruce agreed with my teachers. He should feel sorry for the boy who lost his parents and his brother. Instead, he smacked me on the back of the head.

"Ow!" I objected.

"Wipe that self-pitying look off your face," Bruce ordered.

"You're hitting me so I'll do better in English?"

"I'm trying to knock some sense into that thick skull of yours," Bruce growled. "Look here, on this grammar quiz. You listed _firm_ as a noun. How can _firm_ be a noun?"

"You can say 'The chair is firm'," I pointed out. "The chair is something, and that something is firm. That makes _firm_ a thing, so it's a noun."

"_Firm_ is an adjective," Bruce insisted. "You can say 'the firm chair' so it's an adjective."

"You can say 'the metal car,' but _metal_ isn't an adjective," I raised my voice.

"It's a modifying noun!" Bruce almost yelled.

"Nouns are modeling now?" I demanded.

"Modifying!" Bruce roared.

In the midst of all the grammar shouting, Selina arrived so Bruce wasn't in the best of moods to greet her. She came into the room like she owned it, all strutting and slutty in her black dress. (Don't tell Bruce I said that – I'm not supposed to know that word, much less use it.) She shook Bruce's hand, but she looked like she'd like to jump on him and start slobbering kisses all over him. When she finally let go, I stuck out my hand, trying to be polite.

"Oh, Bruce," she gushed. "Isn't he darling? Shaking hands all serious – such a sweet ten-year-old."

"I'm thirteen," I insisted, but she just smiled sweetly at Bruce and patted my head like I was an adorable puppy.

"So cute," Selina observed. "How can you bear to live with such an angel?"

"He has his moments," Bruce said, almost sarcastically.

"I'm sure he does," Selina gave me a smile, her eyes intense and hard as if she wanted to eat me right then and there. The look passed, and she turning adoring eyes on Bruce. "Well, is he off to bed now?"

"No, he's eating with us," Bruce told her.

Selina gave me another I'm-going-to-swallow-you-whole glare before replying, "Oh, he wants to be a big boy, does he? Takes after his guardian I suppose."

Bruce gave a short laugh. "Let's go into dinner, shall we?"

He put one hand on her back and gestured to the dining room door. She started for the door, but I saw his hand stay on the small of her back for a few seconds longer than it had to. Gag.

Our formal dining room has twelve chairs at the table, but only three places were set: the head of the table, a seat to the right and a seat to the left. I don't remember where the guest is supposed to sit so I hung back while Bruce pulled out the right-hand chair and seated Selina. I got into the chair across from her, and Bruce took the head. He said a short grace (which I'm sure Selina didn't close her eyes for though I closed mine!) and Alfred began serving the first course.

Manners . . . well, I have them, sort of. My parents taught me to eat correctly as much as they could, and Bruce made me learn even more manners when I came here. Alfred used to tie a huge napkin around my neck so I wouldn't spill food on my nice clothes. Thank goodness he stopped doing that, or I'm sure Selina would be laughing her pretty face off.

I do know how to eat right, but there's a difference between manners when Bruce and I eat in the small room of the kitchen and manners when we have company in the dining room. Then he wants me to sit up, elbows off the table, napkin in my lap, mouth closed when I chew, no talking with food in my mouth, no stuffing in large bites, and pretty much no talking unless someone talks to me first.

I think the last rule was made when Commissioner Gordon came to visit a few years ago, and Bruce was scared I might give away his secret identity. I wouldn't, but he insists that I be respectful to adults and not hog the conversation. It didn't matter anyway because Gordon began asking me about the Gotham Knights, and I knew all the football scores, and we discussed that year's team while Bruce looked on with a half-smile.

But I could tell there would be no sports talk with Selina. She ignored me right away and began talking about the Gotham Ball next month. She wanted Bruce to ask her, I could tell, and I could also tell he wanted to ask her, but he didn't.

Adults are so stupid.

It was in the middle of the third course when stuff started getting rocky. I had listened to Selina talk about her dress for the ball for nearly half-an-hour, and she was starting to describe the way she would do her hair, when I decided to change the subject. I was eating some French bread, and I pretended to choke on it.

I began coughing lightly, and then I deepened my coughs until they were deep-throated hacks. Bruce turned, all concerned, and reached over to clap me on the back. I wasn't so thrilled to have him bring that hard hand of his down on my back after he had applied it so thoroughly about twelve inches down. But it was worth it to see Selina's face as my coughing interrupted her in the middle of her story.

"Sorry," I coughed lightly, "I didn't mean to interrupt."

"It's all right," Bruce told me. "Take smaller bites."

"Where is the ball going to be?" I asked as I took small sips of water.

"I think at the Masquerade Grand Hotel," Bruce glanced to Selina. She nodded tightly, and he looked at me suspiciously. "Are you expecting an invitation?"

"No," I said slowly. This was tricky ground. If I said I didn't want to go, Bruce would find a reason to make me go, saying it was time I met more people in Gotham and I needed to learn to behave at parties and all that. But if I said I wanted to go, he would know something was up and start questioning me about what I was up to.

So I shrugged. "I read something about it in the paper."

"Really, Bruce," Selina's voice was high-pitched, "you aren't thinking of taking him. He's a child."

"There will be other children there," Bruce replied before I could protest. "I think Commissioner Gordon might bring his daughter. You remember her, Dick? Barbara?"

"Yeah, I know her," I muttered. It was not the time to start talking about how I felt about stubborn, fast-talking, I-do-it-my-way Barbara Gordon.

"So it's a family event now," Selina said, pressing her lips together. "One big picnic, I suppose."

"Why do you care?" I demanded. "You'll be too busy worrying about your stupid dress."

"Dick!" Bruce turned stern eyes on me. "You apologize at once."

The ache in my bottom told me to obey, and I mumbled, "Sorry."

"I apologize for his rudeness," Bruce told her. "We've had a hard day today."

"Oh?" Selina raised perfect eyebrows. "What happened?"

I swore if Bruce told her the truth, I was running right out the front door and I would never come back. If Selina Kyle knew how Bruce had punished me, I would never live it down.

"Just some school matters," Bruce explained. "Dick's having a little trouble with the homework."

"Maybe he needs to repeat a grade?" Selina suggested as she took a sip of her wine.

I glared daggers at her, but Bruce waved it aside.

"No, we worked through it. Some of the coursework is harder than I guessed it would be. I suppose middle school is harder now than it was when I went to school."

I loved Bruce for sticking up for me then, and I think the rest of the dinner would have been fine except that Selina couldn't let anything go.

She arched her eyebrows and said, "Or it could be what happens when you take in a child raised in a traveling circus."

The room went quiet. I froze with my hand in mid-air.

"Selina," Bruce said gently, "I'm not sure that's called for."

"What do you mean?" she asked blankly. "You told me yourself, Bruce, that you thought his parents didn't have time to teach him anything concerned with school."

I waited for Bruce to deny it, but the expression on his face was so worried that I knew he had said that.

"Take it back!" I ordered, speaking to both of them.

Bruce opened his mouth, but Selina leaned across the table before he could speak. "I know all about your parents, little boy," she hissed. "They were poor acrobats in a circus that was about to declare bankruptcy. And you were taken in by Gotham's hero because he felt sorry for you, not because you belong here."

Just like throwing the box, I didn't think. I grabbed a handful of beef off my plate and threw it at her. It hit her black dress, splattering on her bare neck.

"Richard Grayson!" Bruce bellowed.

"Take that back!" I yelled, reaching for another handful of food.

"My dress!" Selina screamed. "I'll scratch your eyes out!"

She leapt out of her seat, moving faster than anyone I have ever seen. But Bruce had already gotten out of his chair and grabbed me by the collar.

"You apologize to her, young man!" he ordered.

"I won't!" I clenched my hands into fists. "She can't talk that way about my parents."

"How dare you let him do that?" she screeched. "You let him treat your guests like that? He's an animal."

"He's going to apologize," Bruce began, but I shook my head.

"No! I'm not saying anything to her ever again. You say you're sorry first about my parents."

"I told the truth," Selina snarled. "Everyone thinks it's ridiculous that a brat like you with Gypsy blood and no family should get to live like Gotham's prince. It's ridiculous, and you should be raised as a servant with Alfred, not parading around the place like you own it, you stupid circus freak."

Bruce stared at her, amazed that she could be so spiteful.

"I'm not speaking to her," I yelled, but my voice broke on the last word. I could feel tears stinging my eyes, and my bottom hurt, and I was tired, but as usual no one cared about me.

"Selina," Bruce spoke very quietly, "I think you better leave now."

She raised huge eyes up to him, and I thought she would start crying. But she made an enraged sound deep in her throat and whirled around to stomp towards the door. I saw Alfred rush down the hall to open the front door for her.

Bruce looked down at me, and I gulped. He clapped his right hand on the back of my neck and he marched me out of the dining and up the stairs to my room. Once we got there, he shut the door and turned around very slowly.

"Richard," his voice made my heartbeat increase, "what was the meaning of all that?"

"You heard her," I squeaked, hating that my voice was choosing now to break. "You heard what she said."

"I did," Bruce glowered. "And believe me, that is the only reason you are not getting spanked right here and now for acting so awful."

Thank goodness for Selina's meanness then. I don't think I could handle getting spanked twice in one day.

"I admit, she was not as kind as she could be, but I won't have you antagonizing guests in this house."

"My parents weren't dumb," I insisted. "They were smart and they taught me a lot. I didn't have time to go to school, but Mom taught me to read, and I learned really quickly."

"No one is doubting your parents," Bruce assured. "But I can't let you talk to people like that and lose your temper so quickly. Besides, it's common courtesy to treat guests like you would treat your friends. Do I treat your friends like that?"

"You don't like Tom Fowler," I pointed out, my voice still shaky. "You said I couldn't invite him over."

"Because he has blue hair, two earrings, and smokes cigarettes in eighth grade," Bruce told me. "You're not hanging out with anyone like that."

"But you can invite Selina over to be all bitchy," I said the word before I could stop myself.

Bruce looked at me, and I closed my eyes, sure I was about to be spanked. For some reason, I just couldn't stop myself that day. I almost wished Bruce had put a gag on me before dinner started so I would have stopped talking.

He reached out and grabbed me by the ear. I went along with him as he pulled me into the bathroom. My bathroom is huge and has marble floors and two sinks with brass faucets. But Bruce pulled me over to the first sink and grabbed a fresh bar of soap from the counter.

"Open," he told me.

I did with a sigh, and he stuck the bar in my mouth. It wasn't a big bar, and it was flat, kind of like the size of a chocolate bar. But I kept my tongue pressed down so it didn't touch the soap, and I breathed through my nose.

"Twenty seconds," Bruce ordered. "And if you swear again, I'll triple the time."

I wanted to point out that the word I said meant a female dog, and I didn't see the problem because he would let her call me a cute little puppy dog in a second. But I couldn't speak with the soap in my mouth which was probably a good thing or I'd be in more trouble.

Twenty seconds is an awful long time, and I breathed a sigh of relief when he took the soap out. But he was satisfied?

"Tongue out," Bruce ordered.

"Aw, Bruce," I complained. He refused to budge, so I stuck my tongue out. He rubbed the bar of soap back and forth on my tongue. It tasted awful, and my mouth had extra saliva from trying not to swallow for twenty second, and I nearly gagged.

"You better shape up," Bruce told me. "I've lengthened your restriction from the playstation to three weeks, and no TV for a week as well."

I didn't even argue, just nodded glumly. I felt my eyes stinging again, and I turned to the side, hoping he wouldn't see.

"What is it?" he asked, his voice a tiny bit less stern.

I wanted to say nothing, just glare and him and stomp into my room to go to bed. Instead, tears filled my eyes, and I cried out, "I miss my parents!"

I felt like such a baby. I wanted to stop, but I could only blink back the tears and pray I didn't start crying like I had in the afternoon.

I heard Bruce shift uncomfortably. "Dick," he began, sounding very awkward.

I shook my head and ran for my room. I threw myself on my bed and buried my face in my pillows, hugging my arms around one as I cried. I hated myself for being such a baby, and I hoped Bruce would just leave and I could fall asleep and forget this awful day.

Instead, I felt the bed move as he sat down on the edge of it, and he put a hand on my shoulder.

"Hey, come on," he said gently. "Don't cry. It's okay, Dick. It's okay to miss them."

"But you're mad at me," my voice was muffled by the pillow.

"I'm mad you were throwing food and yelling," Bruce said. "And if you ever throw food again in this house, I will take that playstation to the cave and run over it with the Batmobile."

It would have been funny except that he was serious.

"I know dinner was hard," Bruce continued. "We were all scared after the bomb this afternoon, and I know you're still sore, but you really have to stop acting so – so –"

"Like a kid?" I asked from the pillows.

"I was going to say like a teenager," Bruce sighed. "But I have a feeling we're going to have a lot more of that in this household. I am sorry about your parents though and your brother."

The simple honesty in his voice made me roll over and looked up at him. Sometimes his quietness makes me mad because he takes everything so calmly while I want to get upset. But at other times (like now), I like how reliable he is, always there for me to trust.

"I'm sorry, too," I admitted.

"Good enough," Bruce stood up. "Why don't you go on to sleep? I'll send a note to your teachers tomorrow about why you're missing homework."

"You're going to tell them it blew up?" I asked hopefully.

"I'll tell them that you misplaced them and need to make up the work over the weekend," Bruce replied. "Good night."

"'Night," I called him.

"Don't sleep in your clothes," Bruce said as he headed for the door. "And brush your teeth."

He wouldn't have to tell me twice tonight, not with the gross soap taste still in my mouth.

A few minutes later as I got into bed, I felt better that I had in several days. Bruce and I were friends again, and maybe I would never have to see Selina again. Everything would be all right.

Little did I know how awful the rest of the week would be.


	3. Upset

It's been a long time since I updated this story, but I still like it. Lots of comic lore in this chapter. You should recognize Pamela Isley, but if not, Google her name. I'm mixing comics and the animated cartoon "The Batman" to get the back story for my story. In "The Batman," Barbara looks older than Dick, but in the comics and my story, they are the same age.

Disclaimer: I own nothing here and will be paying good money to see the new movie this summer as well as paying for lots of comics.

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My bad week started the next morning. I woke up on time, but I don't really consider myself a morning person. It takes me a while to wake up, and it's not 'til early afternoon that I'm at the top of my games. You'd think Bruce would admire that, seeing as how he does all his Batman stuff late at night, but apparently he thinks I should be alert at all times.

So the next morning I dragged around a little bit and was only late to breakfast by, like, two seconds, but he started right in on me.

"Dick, why are you always so slow in the morning?" Bruce grumbled as he drank his coffee. "You know we eat at every morning at seven so you can get to school by eight,"

"Why?' I grumbled as I sat down.

"So you can have a healthy breakfast."

"Why? Other kids get to have Pop Tarts in the car. Why do I have to come down early?"

Alfred set my plate of eggs, toast, and fruit down in front of me along with a glass of milk.

"Hurry up and eat," Bruce told me. "I'm driving you today and I don't want to be late for my meeting."

"You're the boss," I said, poking my fork into my eggs. "Let the meeting be late or just don't go."

Bruce took a breath, the sort of deep, bracing breath he usually takes right before he ploughs into a long lecture.

"There isn't much traffic," Alfred said quickly. "You be able to get right into town. I'll get Master Dick's school things together, and you'll be ready to go in no time."

"No, he's supposed to take care of his own stuff," Bruce told Alfred. "He's in charge of organizing his schoolbooks, making his bed, and picking up his room before he leaves each morning."

I had not done any of those things, but before I could say so, Alfred was heading for the door. "No problem, sir, but this once . . . since we're running late . . ."

Bruce turned to me, but I was stuffing food into my mouth. Bruce pointed his finger at me, a way of saying _Get it together!_ and started drinking coffee again.

Usually, I like Alfred's food. Bruce may be Batman, but I think Alfred could be anything else he wanted to be. Alfred can cook and clean, but he also can run all the computers and machines down in the Cave and he can take out bad guys, and he knows doctor stuff for when Bruce gets hurt. I think Alfred once had to take care of Bruce when Bane broke a bunch of his bones, but Bruce won't talk about it. I mentioned it once to Alfred, and he got a real scared look in his eye and said that he helped set Bruce's bones and all's well that ends well and we didn't need to talk about it. I wonder what really happened then.

But back to the food – yeah, Alfred's food tastes really good, but that morning I really wanted a Pop Tart. Well, I really wanted four Pop Tarts, the cherry kind with the icing on top. Bruce says they're too much sugar, that I might as well eat cookies for breakfast. I wouldn't mind eating those either, but Bruce has this thing about me having too much sugar.

"It doesn't have that much sugar," I blurted out.

"Huh?" Bruce lowered the paper he was reading to look at me. "The fruit?"

"No, other food," I said evasively. "Sugar doesn't bother me."

"Other people would tend to disagree," Bruce remarked. "Oh, but that reminds me. You need a dentist visit soon."

I froze, fork halfway to my mouth. I've seen a few horror movies. Usually late at night when I slipped downstairs or in the afternoon before Alfred caught me and turned off the TV. But all the awful things that happen in those movies – arms and legs getting cut off, blood everywhere, hooks gauging out people's eyes – none of that is as scary as going to the dentist's office in real life. I'll take the Joker's acid over the dentist's pick any day of week.

"When ?" I tried not to whimper.

Bruce looked me, and I could tell he was deliberating on what to say. "Why don't we get it over with? You want to see if I can get us in today/"

"You, too?" I raised my eyebrows.

"Yeah, might as well," Bruce nodded. "Want to make sure I'm up-to-date, too." He smiled at me, showing his straight, white teeth. "Besides, I want to see if you're going to need braces soon."

Why didn't Bruce just punch me in the face and get it over with? Why did he prefer to torture me long and slow? Of course, going to the dentist with him was better than going by myself. Maybe I would get to see him laying back in the chair with all that gritty stuff in his mouth and trying to talk around the metal scraper to tell the dentist that he was about to gag.

"I'll call the office and see if we can get in early this afternoon, right after school," Bruce said. "I think Dr. Klortz said he wanted to fill one your back teeth."

Scary dentist turning into horrific nightmare. Filling meant shots . . . in my mouth. Why did Bruce have to remind me? I would be thinking about it all day at school.

"All right," Alfred walked back in the kitchen, holding my black backpack, "got it. Your books are inside, along with a note explaining why you don't have yesterday's homework. Your lunch is packed, and your coat is hanging on the doorknob."

"I don't need a coat," I objected. "It's not cold."

"It's October," Bruce said flatly. "You're wearing a coat."

"None of the other kids do."

"It's forty-eight degrees out there," Bruce told me. "You're wearing a coat."

"I don't like my coat," I complained. "It's dumb."

"Coats can't be dumb," Bruce replied. "And we just bought it a month ago."

"I didn't like it then," I grumbled. "I told you I didn't want it, but no one listens to me."

Bruce flung his paper down on the table. "What don't you like about it?"

"It's all blue and happy and dumb," I insisted. "It looks like something a little kid would wear, and it buttons up instead of zips, and I don't like it."

Bruce looked at Alfred, but Alfred had already turned back to the huge stove and was rattling pans around, pretending not to pay attention.

"You're wearing it," Bruce told me.

"I'll take it off during recess," I retorted.

"Oh, look at the time," Alfred turned from the stove before Bruce could start yelling. "Why don't I take Master Dick to school?"

"Forget it," Bruce snapped. "I'm taking him in the blue coat right now."

The drive into Gotham was quiet. Bruce stared out the window resolutely, gripping the wheel and breathing tightly. I sat in my stupid blue jacket, holding my backpack and wondering what would happen if I threw my jacket in a garbage can and walked away.

I don't even know why I felt so out of sorts. I just felt grouchy and mad and upset. But I knew if I complained at school I would get that wide-eyed disbelief look from my friends. They never say anything, but I can tell from their expressions that they don't understand why the ward of Gotham's richest man should complain about anything. Just once I would like to stand up and shout "_Money doesn't solve everything_!"

But maybe to people living in trailers or with dads and moms having poor jobs, money would solve a lot of their problems. But I feel like I can't complain because then they give each other the "_Oh, look, the rich boy is whining_" look.

"Plan to go to the dentist after school," Bruce broke the silence. "I'll stop and get you a toothbrush so you can brush before we go."

I swear, sometimes he liked torturing me. That might be a mean thing to say, but he gets this look in his eyes that tells me he enjoys my suffering. Of course, I see that expression usually after I've been bad and have to go through whatever consequences I've earned. But once again, he should feel sorry for me, not enjoy that I'm paying for whatever I did. He should feel bad I'm suffering, not like that I got what was coming to me.

"Fine," I muttered.

"Honestly, Dick, what's wrong with you this morning?" Bruce demanded as he switched lanes. "You're all sulky over nothing."

"I'm tired," I shifted restlessly.

"You went to bed by nine last night," Bruce pointed out.

"Then I'm too wide awake," I retorted.

"Is this about yesterday?"

"No," I snarled, hugging my backpack to my chest.

"You can't be upset about that," Bruce declared.

"Yes, I can," I burst out. "You spanked me and washed my mouth out with soap."

"You disobeyed me and swore."

"I don't care. I'm thirteen! That's too old to get spanked. Nobody else my age gets punished that way. I'm not a kid."

"Then stop acting like it," Bruce told me.

"I'm telling the school you hit me," I cried out. It was a low blow, and I felt bad the moment I said it.

Bruce's hand tightened around the steering wheel. "Richard Grayson," he said in his fiercest Batman voice, "that is enough. If I hear one more word out of you, I'm taking you home, paddling you, and standing you in the corner for the rest of the day."

"I can't miss school," I objected.

"I'll tell them you're sick. I'll say that you –"

A beeping noise sounded out suddenly. Bruce pushed up the sleeve of his left arm and glanced at the intricate wristwatch that was beeping. He pushed a button on the watch, silencing it, before turning on the radio.

"I repeat," a woman's monotone voice said, "the Joker has escaped from Arkham Asylum an hour ago. The Joker made his escape using a toxin, bred from the asylum's prescribed drugs and used it to knock out the guards. Citizens of Gotham are encouraged to call the police if they see a man with pale skin, dark hair, and an enlarged smile on the streets. Do not attempt to approach the Joker – keep your distance and call the police. Commissioner Gordon has offered a $25,000 reward for any information leading to the Joker's capture. There will be a bulletin updated every thirty minutes until the Joker is returned to Arkham."

Bruce turned the radio down and spoke into his watch. "Alfred?"

"Here, sir," Alfred's crisp British voice came from Bruce's watch.

"Joker's escaped. Get the Bat Mobile ready," Bruce ordered.

"Affirmative, sir," Alfred said before cutting off.

"Let me come, too," I clamored.

"No," Bruce shook his head, "you've come a long way in your training, but you're not ready to face the Joker. I don't want you anywhere near him. You go to school and Alfred will pick you up."

"Aw," I started to complain, but Bruce froze me with a stern glare.

"I mean it, Dick. Don't not leave the school property. Stay with other students, and if anything happens do exactly what the teachers say. Got it?"

"Got it," I muttered, know he wanted a verbal answer.

"We'll go to the dentist some other day," Bruce told as he pulled up in front of my school. "Be good, and don't leave the school."

"Yeah, yeah," I nodded along as I got out of the car. I shut the door behind me and started for the school.

In homeroom, everyone was talking about the Joker's escape.

"Bad," Barbara Gordon was saying as she sat the wrong way in her seat to talk to Pamela Isley behind her. "Really bad. The worst thing ever. Joker just waltzes out of Arkham. Dad was furious. So many guards will be getting fired once Joker is returned."

"Terrible," Pamela agreed, tossing her red hair back. "Just think of all those toxins he released. Think what they'll do to the environment. Think of the trees and the plants."

"And the people," I added as I slid into my seat.

Pamela fixed me with a hostile look. "It's the people who damaged this earth enough already. If they're not dumping chemicals into rivers or cutting down rainforests, they're letting criminals free to destroy the atmosphere."

"No one freed Joker," I objected. "The lunatic broke out on his own."

Pamela opened her mouth to retort something mean, probably about how I was responsible for the whole global warming issue, but Barbara spoke up.

"Oh, leave him alone. What does he know about the environment? Or the Joker, for that matter? He's just repeating what he heard on the radio."

"I am not!" I declared. "I know about the Joker."

"_I_ know about the Joker," Barbara corrected. "Dad's the commissioner, remember? I get the news firsthand. But don't worry, Dick, I'm sure Bruce lets you read the newspaper when he's done cutting it up."

The two girls shared a secret smile, and I demanded, "What's so funny?"

"Barb told me about that time you and Bruce visited the police station," Pamela laughed. "She said you wanted to see the Most Wanted board, but Bruce wouldn't let you. And when you walked by the investigation board, Bruce covered your eyes so you couldn't see the crime scene photos either."

My cheeks flamed red, and I declared, "That was three years ago. I was ten."

The girls looked at each other and smiled again.

"I bet you still sleep with a nightlight," Pamela teased. "And have Alfred check under the bed for monsters."

I wanted to say something cool and grown-up right then to show them I wasn't a dumb kid, but as always, I couldn't think of the right words to say. So I sat there, red and flustered, trying to come up with something – anything! – to say to the two stupid, annoying redheads.

"Shut up," I finally said.

"Now, now," Mr. Horton came into the class, shaking his head. "That is no way to speak to two young ladies, Mr. Grayson. Perhaps you'd like to apologize."

I should explain here that Mr. Horton is very old-fashioned though I don't think he's much older than Bruce. But he wore old tweed coats and always had a scowl on his face. Even though our school is completely modern and up-to-date with computers and stuff, Mr. Horton insists on calling all of us by our last names and making boys be nice to girls.

"They started it," I protested.

"Mr. Grayson!" Mr. Horton snapped.

The whole class had come in and sat down by now; I found twenty-two pairs of eyes staring at me.

"Sorry," I muttered to the two girls.

"Since Mr. Grayson seems determined to start our morning off on a sour note," Mr. Horton said, "we will help continue his feelings by having a pop quiz on determiners and modifiers. Everyone take out a sheet of paper."

For the next ten minutes, the whole class went back and forth between scribbling down answers and glaring at me. I don't see why everything has to be my fault, and I certainly don't see why I'm the only kid blamed for Mr. Horton's bad mood. And I don't see why I have to know anything about determiners. Am I going to be out someday with Batman and a criminal will jump out and demand "Tell me the difference between _this_ and _those_ in standard English or I destroy Gotham"? Well, maybe if we're tracking the Riddler, but still very unlikely.

I finish my quiz and turned my paper over. I sat perfectly still with my eyes straight ahead and tried to look innocent. It seemed day for people to pick on me, but did anyone feel sorry for me?

The day did not get better as it went along. I realized too late that we were having a short test in science which I had not studied for, I couldn't remember any of the names of the state capitals in social studies, and when I had to solve an algebra problem on the board in math, my mind went blank.

I stared at the equation for several long moments: _8x/2 – 5 3x, Solve for x_.

I hate math.

"Come on, Dick," Ms. Wells encouraged, giving me a small smile from her desk. "Remember what we talked about last week. Try to get _x_ by itself."

I started working, gripping the piece of chalk so tightly it nearly broke in half. I began moving numbers back and forth on both sides of the equal sign, and a snicker rose from behind me.

I whirled around to see Pamela giggling from behind her hand. I thought about raising my hand and flipping her the bird, but I couldn't imagine what Bruce would do then when he found out. So I settled for giving her a death glare and trying to work on the problem.

Ms. Wells finally had mercy on me and let me sit back down.

"Ha!" I heard Pamela whisper loudly. "You think with all that money, Mr. Wayne could buy him some brains."

I turned to Barbara, hoping she might defend me. I hate the idea of a girl fighting for me, but I don't think of Barbara as a girl. I mean, I know she's a girl, but she's fierce and loyal and cool about standing up for her friends (which I guess I'm one of). But she was more concerned about being funny because she joked, "Yeah, maybe Mr. Wayne will send him to the Wizard for a brain."

I think that movie is the dumbest thing ever, but apparently everyone had seen it because they all laughed.

"All right, that's enough," Ms. Wells shook her head. "Dick started the problem, but he forgot to minus _3x_ from both sides. Matthew, why don't you give it a try?"

Even Ms. Wells' kindness didn't help me feel any better, and by lunch, I was ready to scream. Alfred had packed my lunch, and I flopped down in my chair with a disgruntled look at the whole cafeteria.

"What's got into you?" Barbara demanded as she down across from me.

"Nothing," I snapped, angry that she planned to sit beside me because, oh yeah, sure enough, here came her shadow, Pamela.

"Why do we have to sit with him?" Pamela asked as she dropped her tray. "It's bad enough that we have to see him in class."

"Get lost," I told her shortly.

"Make me," she retorted. "Just because you live with the richest guy in Gotham doesn't mean you own the school."

"I never said I did."

"No, you just act like it," Pamela sneered. "You come in, in your nice clothes and expensive backpack with your little electronics –"

"It's called a Gameboy," I told her. "And your parents aren't exactly poor."

I didn't know much about Pamela's parents except they were rich and never around, but I must have hit a sore spot because her green eyes flashed at me.

"Yeah Well, I'm not stuck up like you," she spat. "You don't care about the school or the environment –"

"Screw the environment!" I shouted.

"That's what I thought!" Pamela yelled back. "You side with all those bull-headed capitalists who want to destroy Planet Earth. Just what I expect, seeing how you live with Mr. Wayne, the head of the biggest eco-toxic company in Gotham."

"You leave Bruce out this," I returned. "You're just mad because your parents are never around to care what you do."

"Mr. Grayson!" Mr. Horton bellowed from across the cafeteria. I saw him coming towards me, a frown on his face. I saw the hurt on Pamela's face and the shock on Barbara's, and I knew that would only get me into more trouble.

Something inside me snapped. I knocked my lunch off the table, jumped out of my seat, and ran for the exit door. I heard Mr. Horton yelling for me to stop, but I didn't care.

I ran across the recess yard and off the school property. I didn't stop running, my shoes pounding on the pavement, until I found myself in the middle of downtown Gotham.

People were walking all around me, hurrying through the blustery wind that blew down the streets. I wished I had a coat with me, even the stupid blue coat that I had left in homeroom. I began trudging towards Wayne Corp., knowing I could wait in Bruce's office until he got there. He would be mad, but surely once I told him about what Pamela had said . . .

I rounded the corner and stopped in front of the used electronic store where twelve different-sized TVs all showed the Joker's face. It was really creepy, and I looked away, an instinctive reaction to the pale, disfigured face and the awful smile.

"Four hours now," the announcer's voice sounded through the glass, "and the Joker still remains at large. No victims have been discovered or robberies made, but all of the Gotham waits and prays that the Batman finds the Joker before any serious crimes are committed."

I glanced down the street. Gotham was a dark, lonely place to begin with, but in light of this recent news, every person seemed to rush faster and gazed down at the cold cement, refusing to look at anyone else.

I kept watching the people, men in business suits, women in skirt or pants, occasionally a teenager playing hooky like me. These people were who Batman protected, who he gave up his nights to save – they needed him. And someday he wanted me to work along side him all the way.

A sense of peace flooded over me, and I turned to continue to Wayne Corp, ready to be civil to Bruce.

But then I saw the Joker's face. And this time it wasn't on TV screens.

He stood in front of me, wearing the tattering orange costume of Arkham. His face was nearly white, but I could see the scars around the corners of his mouth where he had been shot and the doctors had sewn up the gaping wounds, forcing him to wear the hideous smile all the time.

All around us, I heard people start screaming, recognizing him at once.

But the Joker didn't even blink. His eyes lit up with evil glee at the sight of me.

"What have we here?" he said in a low voice, nearly a chuckle.

"Nothing," I whispered. "Nothing – I was just leaving."

"So soon?" the Joker's smile seemed to widen though I would have sworn it was impossible. "Let me give you something to help you relax."

He pulled out a gun and aimed for my head.

I nearly fainted as my heartbeat spiked at the sight of the gun.

"Sweet dreams," the Joke said.

He pulled the trigger. A spray of green mist shot out of the barrel.

I saw the Joker's demented smile before my knees gave out. I fell forward, sinking into endless darkness.


	4. Toy Terror

AN: I finally got another chapter of this story written. I promise I will update the other soon.

Warning: This chapter contains spanking and references to torture. Do not read if the idea of such things disturbs you.

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My brain felt fuzzy, like I was trying to wake myself up after only a few hours of sleep in the middle of the night. I moaned lightly, as I tried to wake myself, wanted to make the thick fog in my head go away.

"Yes," I heard a voice, "that's it. Wake up, little one. Time to play."

I pulled my eyes open and felt a jolt of horror jerk through me as I stared at the white face of the Joker, his twisted lips smiling at me in a grotesque smile.

I tried to pull away, but I found to my terror I was tied down to a flat table, my arms over my head, hands and feet spread and secured to the four corners of the table legs.

"Yes, yes," Joker drew back and clapped his hands, "so wonderfully tied down. Helpless, poor little boy, ready to appreciate every bit of the Joker's toys."

"Let me go," I meant to yell, but my voice came out weak and scared. "Let me go, Joker, or –"

"Or what?" Joker pranced over to a rolling cart where several brightly-colored boxes stood on top. He was wearing what looked like an old magician's suit: striped pants, a fancy coat, and a bowtie.

"You'll be sorry," I sounded so pathetic, and my voice chose right then to crack.

"No, you're wrong," the Joker looked delighted as he approached the cart. "I broke out of Arkham and came to my favorite hiding place where I keep all my lovely toys. Do you have any idea where my hiding place might be?"

Pushing down my panic, I glanced around as much as I could with my body tied to the table. At least he had left my clothes on.

The room was dark with wooden walls and dusty cobs webs in the corner. Dull light shone from the cracks in one wall.

"I don't know," I told him.

"Oh, but you must guess," Joker insisted. "If you do not guess, I will have to break my toy before we began the games."

"Okay," I said hastily. I closed my mind, trying to concentrate. Think, Dick, think. Think of the exercises Bruce make you do. Bruce liked to train me to think – sometimes he would call me to the family room at night and put me through a bunch of tests, possible scenarios I would find myself in and making me figure out how to get out of them. I had trouble slowing down to think. I thought running and fighting back were the best things to do, but Bruce only shook his head and told me that I had to learn to think. I thought the exercises were a wasting of time, but he insisted and I wasn't allowed to play video games until I obeyed.

So I had to think now. Okay, the place was obvious abandoned. All the cobwebs meant it hadn't been used in a while. And the light through the cracks seemed to be pointing up. That was important; even when it was cloudy, light tended to shine from the sun, and its direction depended on the position of the sun.

I could figure this out. What did light look like where it shone through my curtains in the morning? The sun was low in the sky, and sometime the light shone up because my bedroom was high, up on the second floor. Even if the sun were setting outside, the room I was in now would have to be high. If the room were underground, the light would be angling down.

Joker was getting impatient, so I blurted out, "I'm not sure where we are exactly, but I know we're in an abandoned building up off the ground, at least a second floor building, probably higher."

"Smart boy," Joker edged near me. "Bruce Wayne isn't raising a stupid boy."

"How do you know –"

"I've seen you," Joker hissed. "I saw you from my cell, peering out and watching as the millionaire Bruce Wayne came down the hall. You were beside him."

"Yeah," I said slowly, "Bruce took me to Arkham a few months ago."

"Oh, you were a naughty one then," Joker shook his head, his eyes gleaming. "Kept trying to wander off, and Mr. Wayne grabbed your arm and pulled you along, right past my cell."

I had forgotten about that part. I had wanted to look in some of the cells, but Bruce dragged me along to Dr. Strange's office, not letting me see any of the psychos in their cells. Bruce hadn't wanted to let me go to Arkham, but Alfred was gone for the day, and Bruce said I couldn't stay home alone.

"And now you've found the Joker's lair," Joker said gleefully. "I wonder how much Mr. Wayne would pay to have you back, the troublesome little boy who won't listen."

Was he planning to ransom me to Bruce? I prayed so because by the time Joker sent the demand thingy for money, Bruce would find a way to rescue me. I had been out at least an hour, judging by the dimming light shining through the cracks. Bruce had to know I was missing.

"Money is nice," Joker admitted. "Nice crisp pieces of paper, buying lovely things. But you know what is even more exciting? Money and playing with new toys. So I will ransom you to Mr. Wayne in a day or two, but first we need to have some fun."

My mouth went dry, and I felt the corners of my eyes stinging. I pushed back tears to ask, "What kind of fun?"

"Fun in different shapes and sizes," Joker rubbed his hands together. He went to the cart and waved his hand over the boxes as if showing off a great prize. "Please, choose which box you would like to play with."

"What's in them?" I demanded.

"Ah-ah," Joker shook a finger in my direction, "you must chose first. Five boxes – blue, red, yellow, green, and white. Two boxes are filled with one toy only – the other three boxes have several toys inside. Each toy must be played with for twenty whole minutes. Chose the two that you want play with. Once you chose, I will show you the boxes. Chose wisely, dear boy, or you may not live to regret it."

I drew in a tight breath.

"No stalling," Joker warned. "Every minute you stall, I will add to our play time."

"The white box," I blurted out. It was the smallest, and then I chose the next smallest, "And the blue one."

"Oh, good," Joker's smile widened. "Let's see what's inside."

He opened up the top of the white box and tipped it over. A knife, five inches long, slid out.

I felt cold sweat break out on my forehead.

"And the other one," he took two happy steps and opened the blue box, tipping it over as well.

A box of needles clattered out along with a pair of sharp scissors, a pair of thick pliers with rubber grip handle, and small lighter.

"Oh, no," Joker sighed, "I was hoping for the box with the blow torch. But I can work with this."

He snatched up the lighter and flicked it open, letting a small flame leap to life.

"It's really too bad," he shook his head. "The blow torch would have worked better. Once I carve out your tattoos, it's best to burn them quickly, or I will get blood all over my pretty toys. But . . . I can wash up later."

He put the lighter down. He pulled a pair of leather gloves out of his pocket and pulled them over his hands.

I felt my bottom lip start to tremble. "Please," I croaked out, "please let me go. I promise I won't tell anyone you're here. Please, let me go, please. I'll get the money for you."

"I don't want money – I want to play," Joker snarled. He looked demented, and he picked up the knife from the first box. Admiring the shiny blade, he came towards me.

Fighting against the ropes which held my limbs, I started screaming, "Help! He's going to kill me! Help!"

"Shh, shh," Joker clamped a gloved hand over my mouth. "No screaming until we start playing. That the rule."

I breathed hard through my nose, feeling sick and dizzy.

"That's better," Joker removed his hand. "We're up so high, no one can hear you except the birds. And we all know that birds are simply useless, flapping around in circles."

He pulled the fabric of my shirt and began cutting it in half. He sawed through the cotton knit, humming something that sounded like a carnival tune. When he finished with my shirt, he started on the white undershirt, taking his time.

"There," he pulled back my shirts, baring my torso to the cool air. "Such a nice toy, not scarred at all."

He lightly touched my stomach. It tickled only a little, but I was tensed and the touch was unexpected, and I burst out a shrill noise between a laugh and a scream.

"Yes, yes," Joker cheered, "very sensitive. Oh, he'll feel this. Wouldn't that be nice, to let him die from feeling so much? But no, slowly is what he needs, he wants me to be slow."

The way he talked to himself that calm voice made my already-pounding heart go crazy. I felt like I was losing control of my body, going crazy from my terror.

"Where to start, where to start?" Joker mused.

He began to count down my left ribs, and I shrieked as he found each one.

"So many ribs," Joker shook his head. "You don't need all of them, not at all. Let's get rid of the bottom two. I'm going to start cutting. If you feel the game is too much, clap your hands together, and we'll stop playing."

"My hands are tied apart," I shouted, feeling my stomach churning and bile rising in my throat.

"Those are the rules of the game," Joker placed a hand on my chest. "I have to follow the rules, or I would be cheating. Do you want me to cheat?"

"No, don't!" I screamed as he brought the knife near.

I felt the cold steel of the blade. I closed my eyes, and tears streamed down my cheeks. The knife pressed against my skin, and he started to draw it back and forth, and it hurt, hurt, hurt!

I started to scream, but he was laughing. His high, demonic laughter filled the room, and he kept sawing the knife.

Bang!

Something hit Joker, and he stopped laughing as he stumbled back a few feet.

I raised my head up a few inches to see, and I saw a dark figure enter the room.

"Batman!" Joker howled. "No, no, no – we're playing! Mustn't interrupt a game once it starts."

"Sorry, Joker," I heard Bruce's voice, "the game ends here."

"But you don't understand," Joker said hastily. "This boy here, I'm holding him for ransom. He's that Grayson runt that Mr. Wayne adopted, and I'm going to demand Mr. Wayne pay me two million dollars for him. If you let me play, I'll give you a million."

"No," Batman said flatly, "you're going back to Arkham."

"All right," Joker protested, "you can have the money. Just let me play."

Batman pulled something out of his utility belt and flung it out. Suddenly, a black cord spun around Joker and yanked him back to the wall. The cord had spikes that jutted into the wall, pinning him to the wall.

Batman rushed towards the table, took out a knife, and sliced through the ropes. I could only see his mouth and chin, and his lips were pressed together.

"Was he planning to torture you, Mr. Grayson?" Batman asked in the same stern voice.

"Yeah," I slowly sat up, "with the stuff on the cart."

Batman glanced towards the cart to see the torture instruments. "You are fortunate I found you when I did. Mr. Wayne must be very worried by now."

Joker was struggled with the cord, but he could not get free.

I sat up straight, but Batman said, "Slowly. Let me help you."

He put his strong arms around me and lifted me up. For a second, he held me close to him, and I could feel him tremble under his suit. I did not realize he was scared until then, and I found myself shaking so hard I did not think I could stand.

I looked down at my stomach. There was a red line where the knife had sawed against me, and a few drops of blood oozed out, but I knew Alfred would spread antibiotic cream on it and cover it up with a large band-aid to heal.

I heard the sirens in the background. The howling sound was like music, the sweetest thing I had ever heard.

Batman walked over to Joker and gazed at him. "Don't play with children," Batman finally said in a cold voice. He lashed out with on gloved fist and slammed it into Joker's face. Joker's head banged against the wall, and he slumped over unconscious.

I could hear footsteps, probably coming up stairs outside the room. I looked at Batman, worriedly. He pulled out a small metal bat from his belt and tucked in the cords holding Joker. I could see the sharp edges of the bat's wing – Batman was leaving his mark on the Joker to show the cops that he had caught the psycho.

"Let's go," Batman kicked one of the wall. The wood splintered and when he hit it again, the wall fell out. I saw the city of Gotham spread out below with night coming quickly. I looked down, but Bruce grabbed me and ordered, "Hold on tight."

I put my arms around his neck, interlocking my fingers, just like we had practiced in the Bat Cave so many times. But this was real.

Batman went to the edge and jumped. I fell with him, hugging him tightly as we free-fell through the air. He had one hand wrapped around my back, digging into my bare skin. I've done free-falls in the circus before, but my parents always made me have a net underneath me. Here there was no net, but I trusted Batman. I trust him as Bruce and I trust him in the costume.

Sure enough, as the ground came rushing up, Batman let his wings spread out to catch the air, and we slowed to the pavement below.

Cop cars were parked everywhere, and blue lights were flashing. I saw Commissioner Gordon run up, panting slightly in his gray suit and clutching a two-way radio.

"Batman?"

"Joker's up there," Batman replied stoically.

"And what was Mr. Grayson doing up there?" the commissioner glanced to me.

"Joker was going to ransom him," Batman's voice was hard. "But he was going to torture him first."

Commissioner Gordon paled. "Is he hurt? Has – has anyone notified Bruce Wayne yet?"

"Mr. Grayson is not hurt, but I want to take him to Mr. Wayne myself."

"Of course," Commissioner Gordon nodded. His radio crackled.

"Commissioner?" a voice said from the speaker.

"Yes?" the commissioner demanded.

"We got him."

Commissioner Gordon lowered his radio, looking relieved. "Thank you, Batman. About the reward –"

"Give it to the school," Batman said. He lifted his arm, and a small grappling hook shot out from a long thin line. The hook caught the ledge of a building across the street. Batman grabbed me with hand, and we shot up in the air to swing across the street.

We landed in an alley, and Batman pushed a button on wrist. The Batmobile came out from nowhere, stopping right in front of us.

"Get in," Batman ordered.

Once in the chair, he shut his door and reached over to make sure I had fastened my seatbelt securely.

"Bruce," I began hesitantly, but he shook his head.

"It's Batman. And we're not talking now."

He jammed the car into gear, and it took off with a squeal of tires. Usually, I love riding in the Batmobile. It's so fast, and I keep hoping I can drive it. Once when Bruce was at work and Alfred was busy, I snuck down to the Bat Cave and got into the car and pretended to drive it. Of course, the whole place was wired with cameras, and Bruce yelled at me that night for fooling around with something so dangerous.

Even with the fast car, the drive home seemed to take much longer than I ever remembered. By the time we finally pulled into the Bat Cave, I was shaky from the silence.

Batman swung out of the car. He reached up to take off his cowl, and I felt better when I saw Bruce's face. He rubbed a hand over his dark hair, sweaty from being in the cowl so long.

"Master Bruce?" Alfred rushed into the room. "Oh, Master Dick."

Alfred almost ran towards me, and for a second, I thought he was going to hug me and cry. But he only put his hands on my bare shoulders as he inspected me for damage.

"Just that small cut?" he glanced at Bruce.

"Yeah," Bruce nodded, his lips tight together.

"I heard the Joker was found on the police scanner," Alfred said. "But I feared it might be too late."

"You, bath right now," Bruce said shortly, pointing towards the door. "Alfred, will help you with the cut right after."

I was sitting in the bathtub with damp hair when I started shaking again. I remembered the ropes around my arms and legs, the terror I felt, the way Joker laughed and laughed. I could not stop shaking.

Alfred said nothing, just turned the water warmer. When I got out, he had my pajamas waiting for me, and I put them on without arguing even though it was only a little after six.

He bandaged up my cut and then led me to my bedroom where food was waiting for me. I ate, not really hungry, but I knew he would insist if I refused. After I finished, he left, and I sat there, not knowing what to do. I could not go to sleep then – I felt more nervous than ever, my breath coming out in short puffs.

A knock sounded on the door, and Bruce stepped in. He came towards the bed where I sat.

"Dick –"

"I'm sorry, Bruce," I said in a rush. "I'm sorry about getting caught. I'm sorry about Joker, I'm sorry you had to rescue me, I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry."

"Dick," Bruce said solemnly, "I am not upset because you got kidnapped. Yes, that was terrifying, but I am furious that you left the school when I told you not to. I told you over and over to stay at the school, and then I got the call that you had run off. I immediately stopped tracking Joker and went to find you. I got downtown, and people told me Joker had kidnapped a boy matching your description. I was frantic to find you."

My throat ached like I had swallowed ball that got stuck halfway down.

"It took me over four hours to find Joker," Bruce continued. "By the end of the second hour, I was sure you were dead. I knew any moment I would find your mutilated body in some dark alley after Joker finished with you."

"I'm sorry," I rushed out.

"You have no idea –" Bruce stopped, his voice breaking.

I stared at him, horrified. I made Bruce choke up – Bruce who never cried.

He didn't say another word. He just sat down on my bed, grabbed my wrist, and pulled my over his lap. He wrapped one hand around my waist, holding me extra tight, and he brought his other hand down hard on my bottom.

The sound shot through the room, but he said nothing. He spanked me again, and then I lost it. I don't know if it was the running away, or getting kidnapped and nearly tortured, or having Bruce so upset, but after the second swat, I started crying. I could not hold it together any longer – I clutched at his knee and kept crying. And I got louder the longer he spanked.

Over and over, he rained heavy swats on my pajama-covered bottom. I don't understand why he chooses this way to punish me. I don't like laying over his lap with his hard knees pressing into my torso. I don't like being held firmly, and I really don't like getting spanked. I can laugh off most pain or try to look cool when I get hurt, but there is nothing I can do to ignore a spanking. Bruce is really strong, and he lifts his hand up and brings it down with such force – I think Bane would be whimpering if Bruce did this to him.

The fact that I was getting spanked for the second time in two days did not help. I wish I could have formed words to ask Bruce to please not smack so hard, to remember that I was thirteen and too old to be punished like a little kid, and to please, please finish up because my rear was throbbing.

But all I did though was holler. And wail. And cry. And promise him I would be good.

I hope no one ever records me getting punished like this because I would die of embarrassment. I would do anything to get him to stop, but he doesn't so I end up yelling stuff like, "I'll be good, I promise. Bruce! Bruuuce, I promise! I'll be gooood!"

He did not stop, and I could have sworn the swats got harder.

"You do not run off like that," Bruce finally spoke, resting his hand for a moment. "If you ever, ever disobey me again and put yourself in danger, I will lock you in this room and throw away the key. And I will come in every night for a month to pull you over my knee and spank you."

Any other time, I might have pointed that he couldn't come into my room if he had thrown away the key, but now I only nodded hastily, choking back sobs.

"I am going to give you twenty more," Bruce continued. "And then you are getting into bed and staying there for the rest of the night. Tomorrow I am taking you back to school and telling your teachers you are not allowed out of the building until I come and pick you up again. You are grounded until further notice. Am I understood?"

"Yes, Bruce," I nodded hastily, sure he would give me an extra swat if I did not answer at once.

"Good, here we go. Twenty!" he landed an almighty spank on my rear. "Nineteen!" another swat. "Eighteen."

Down he counted, spanking harder and harder. The final spank he landed so hard I could barely breathe. I was a mess as I cried over his lap, but he pulled me up to stand on my shaky feet.

"Don't ever do that again," Bruce warned.

I was so scared he would make me get in bed and march out without a word, but he didn't. He pulled me into a hug, and I clung to him like a baby. He even pulled me to sit on his knee, and it hurt, but I just sat there, leaning against his chest while he held me. He seems really strong when he does this, and I know I can never get hurt while he's protecting me.

Finally, he let go, and I crawled into bed. My bed had never felt so good, and I collapsed face-down on the pillow. But I didn't want to fall asleep, alone in the dark.

"Wait," I called to Bruce who had not move, "don't leave – please."

"I'm not going anywhere." After covering me up, Bruce took a seat in the chair near by bed.

"I'm scared," I whispered as I held onto the pillow.

"It's fine to be scared," Bruce said, his voice low. "I get scared sometimes, but you can't let your fear make you act out. I don't know what happened at school to make you act the way you did, but I do know that you have to get control of yourself. Can you do that for me?"

I nodded. He reached out and put a hand on my still-damp head.

"That's my boy," he murmured.

I wanted to start crying again. But Bruce stayed with me, patting my head and telling me I was safe until my eyes closed and I fell asleep, safe under the watchful eyes of Gotham's Dark Knight.


	5. Back at Home

AN: Thanks for all the great reviews.

Disclaimer: I do not own anything

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I woke the middle of the night, completely freaked out. I could feel the restraints on my wrists, and my wound ached, and I could picture the Joker standing in the darkness of my room, his cruel smile leering at me.

I was not crying – Pamela says I'm such a baby and cry everyday – but I know I wasn't crying. I was shaking in the dark, so much I thought I would be sick, but I know I didn't cry. Yes, my cheeks were wet, but I'm sure that was from the sweat. I was only sweating on my cheeks, but I know I wasn't crying.

"Bruce?" I called out in a weak voice. "Alfred? Bruce?"

No answer came. I began to panic – I knew they had bee killed. The Joker had found them, had slit their throats, I was the only one alive in the Manor, and he was coming for me next. There would be no Batman to come save me – I was completely alone and at the mercy of that psycho.

I threw the covers off and leapt out of bed. I would go to the Batcave and hide there with a handful of Bat-a-rangs with sharp edges.

I reached the door, and then it opened suddenly. I stumbled back with a terrified cry, but I saw Bruce in blue pajamas, his hair tousled from sleep. He looked at me concerned, but I flung myself at him, wrapping my arms around his waist.

"Hey," Bruce was surprisingly gentle, reaching down to sooth my brown hair back, "what's all this? A nightmare."

I nodded my head against him, not wanting to speak.

"It's three in the morning," Bruce said calmly. "You're stressed from yesterday – some more sleep will do you good."

He started walking to my bed, and I clung to him all the way there, tightening my fingers around the folds in his pajama shirt. That's the great thing about Bruce – he never lectured me about being scared, never told me to stop being a baby when I freaked out at night.

He got me to climb up in the bed and covered me back up. I lay back on the pillow, and he surprised me by reaching out to feel my forehead.

"You're a little warm," he said, sitting on the side of my bed and pulling the covers up snuggly to my neck. "I'm keeping you home from school tomorrow. You can sleep late and then take it easy around the house."

I stared down at the covers, miserable. "I'm a baby," I said, almost whimpered.

"Oh, Dick," Bruce said softly, but I shook my head.

"No, I'm a baby. I ran off when the girls teased me, I let the Joker get me, he would have killed me if you didn't come, and then I cried when you – when you –"

"Richard," Bruce's voice dropped several notches, "don't do this. I punished you, you cried, and it's over. Do I ever punish you for the same thing twice?"

I shook my head, not trusting myself to speak.

"Then I don't want to hear you apologizing for something more than once. I felt your behavior warranted a stern reprimand. I gave it to you, you showed remorse, and now it's done. If you wake up scared in the middle of the night, that is expected. You are not an adult – you can still feel scared at times and cry though I do expect you to begin to show some maturity and discernment in your decisions. When you don't, when you act without thinking, I am here to drag you back from danger. That's how we work."

I don't know how he manages to make me feel so safe, here in the dark, without even turning on a light. I let my breath out slowly, my throat hurting, wondering if I should say anything.

"Ah, Dick," Bruce shook his head. He didn't really need to say much more, and I feel his peace in his silence.

But I didn't want him to leave. When I first came here, I had nightmares, especially about my parents dying. Bruce used to come in and calm me down, but if I was really, really upset, he would carry me back to his bedroom and let me sleep in his huge bed. He wouldn't do it often, and he had stopped when I turned eleven and started kicking in my sleep, but times like tonight I wish he would let me. I'm too big for him to carry, until he slung me over his shoulder, and I would never ask, but I kind of wish he would offer to sleep in my room tonight.

I curled up on my side – my bottom still hurt just a little, and I was hoping he might notice so I feigned a small wince.

"Stop pretending," Bruce told me, a tiny smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You're not in that much pain."

I made a face, but said nothing. I could hear the clock from the hall ticking, the seconds going by one by one.

Bruce stifled a yawn, and I hastily asked, "Will you tell me about the last case you worked?"

"It's so late," Bruce objected.

I scooted over on the bed. "Just one case, real quick."

He moved to lean against headboard, resting his hands on his outstretched legs. "Okay, one case, real quick."

"Other than the Joker," I put in quickly.

"No Joker," Bruce agreed. "What about Catwoman?"

"Catwoman," I scowled in the dark. "I hate her – when are you going to get her for good?"

"Last time, I nearly did," Bruce told him. "It was late on night, outside Gotham Museum. I had a tip that someone was going to steal the Glorian Diamond that was on loan from Metropolis, so I waited outside. Sure enough, just after midnight, she crawls from the shadows, her clawed fingers ready to snatch the diamond from the case. She leapt up to the roof, pulling herself along the ledges so fast I could barely keep up with her, but I keep getting closer and closer."

He kept talking, telling me about how he had stopped Catwoman from stealing the diamond, but she slipped away before the police could get there. I love hearing about Batman at work, how he jumps off high ledges, his tools, and his quick thinking at a moment's notice. It's hard for me to picture Bruce doing all that when he's dressed normal. Sitting beside me on the bed, in pajamas, you would think he never did more than go to meetings and nice parties and maybe play golf. Every time I see him in costume, I forget he's the same man who took me in and lectures me about school and being nice to guests. He's Batman, my hero.

Bruce kept talking, his voice growing lower and lower, and I closed my eyes, still listening to his voice.

--

I opened my eyes to find morning light streaming in window. My door was open, and I looked at the clock. 8:14. Okay, that meant I didn't have to go to school today.

Bruce came into my room, wearing a suit and fiddling with his tie. "Okay, I got to go to work. Alfred's going to fix you some breakfast, and you need to rest today."

"Can I play Playstation?" I asked eagerly.

"No, you're grounded, remember?"

"That's still going on?" I protested, slumping back on the pillows.

"Yes, and no TV or computer either."

"What am I supposed to do all day?" I demanded.

"Study," Bruce told me. "You have stuff due and today would be a good day for you to work quietly on it."

I must have looked miserable because he added, "If you get it all done, we can watch a movie tomorrow."

"_300_?" I suggested.

"Something PG," Bruce retorted.

"My friends at school have seen it," I objected, but Bruce didn't have time to listen. He told me to be good and then dashed out the door.

Ugh, stuck at home all day with nothing fun to do. I wondered if I could get away with watch TV with Alfred. I would never lie to him, and I've noticed that he and Bruce seemed to be ganging up on me lately. If I said Bruce said I could play on the computer, I bet Alfred would call Bruce to ask, and then I'd really be in trouble.

"Morning, young sir," Alfred came into my room with a tray. "A spot of tea before you get ready, and breakfast will be done shortly. But first –"

Alfred shook his right hand very hard and then popped a thermometer in my mouth. I didn't see it coming, and I almost bit down on the glass in surprise.

"Ah-ah," Alfred shook his head. "Under your tongue for two minutes. I want a proper read. Be still while I take your pulse."

I rolled my eyes, but that didn't stop Alfred from taking my wrist and holding it while he consulted his pocketwatch. I guess Bruce told Alfred I felt warm, and I wish he hadn't because Alfred is awful when he thinks we're sick. Most adults, when you tell them you're sick, are all "Oh, stay away from me!" and they back up so they won't catch anything. Alfred, he's all up your face, taking temperatures, looking in your eyes, and demanding to know where it hurts.

I've learned to hide stuff Alfred as best I can. Once when I went to the grocery store and bought 23 Airheads and ate them in one afternoon, I thought I was going to be sick, but I didn't say anything to Alfred. He would have wanted to know what I had eaten and then he would have brought out Pepto Bismol or, worse, castor oil and made me swallow a big spoonful. So I pretended to be fine, and it worked until he announced after supper that we were having cake and ice cream for dessert. Disgusted with the thought of more sugar, I said no thanks, and both he and Bruce were sure I was coming down with something so I got sent to bed early. And of course Alfred found all the candy wrappers in the trash the next day and scolded me for ruining my stomach and rotting my teeth.

I don't see how I could have hidden not feeling well today, considering I was staying home from school, but I don't know why he had to make such a big deal about me. I wasn't dying, but I couldn't explain how I felt with the thermometer in my mouth.

He finally let go of my wrist, satisfied with my pulse, and then he started unbuttoning my pajama shirt. Ugh, he never asks my permission, just started undressing me like I'm a baby and does whatever he wants like he's sure I don't care and it wouldn't really matter if I did.

Pulling my shirt back, Alfred gently lifted the bandage to see how the gift from the Joker was healing. It was a little red, but I could see it healing already. He taped the bandage back over the wound and took the thermometer from my mouth to read it.

"99," Alfred pressed his lips in disapproval.

"If it was any higher, would I be dying?" I asked in a voice more sarcastic than I meant it to be.

Alfred raised his eyebrows coldly. "If it were any higher, I'd be packing you into an ice bath straight away."

That made me sit up and stop sneering at him. I drank the tea he gave me – some kind of herbal stuff that was strong and bitter, and then he let me get up and get dressed.

I ate some breakfast down in the kitchen and then began the boring task of deciding what to do for the rest of the day. Alfred wanted me to study down in the kitchen where he could help me, but I wanted to study in the library. He led me to the library to show me it was still a mess from the bomb someone had sent two days ago, and we finally agreed that I would study in the den.

I did study for a while – at least thirty minutes, but then I got bored. I reached for the remote and turned on the TV, careful to keep the sound down. I got to watch about ten minutes before Alfred caught me.

He strode into the den, snatched the remote, and turned off the TV. He dealt me an ominous look, and I cringed under it, and then he left, taking the remote with him.

The rest of the day was boring until three-thirty. I was dragging around the house and finally settled in a sunny nook off the front hall to stare out the window in boredom, wondering if I should read a book just to pass the time, when a knock sounded on the front door. Alfred opened and a moment later, he called out, "Master Richard, a visitor for you."

I didn't know who could be visiting me, but I went to the door and found Barbara there, holding several books even though she had a backpack slung over her shoulder.

"Hi," she gave me a small smile, "I brought your homework from today."

"Fine," I replied, not wanting to speak to her.

I felt something push against my back. Alfred frowned down at me, his Remember-your-manners,-young-man look that warned me to be polite or pay for it later.

"Thank you," I said and tried to look like I meant it.

Barbara looked back over her shoulder at the cop car in the drive before she said, "Dad had one of the rookies drive me up. I wanted to see how you were. Dad is coming by later to talk to Mr. Wayne and said if I wanted to study some . . ." she trailed off, but Alfred immediately said,

"Of course, you may stay here until your father comes later. Shall I go tell the officer you will be spending the afternoon here?"

"I'll do it," Barbara offered, brightening up as she ran down the steps towards the cop car.

I made a face. "I don't want to spend the afternoon with her."

"You listen to me, young sir," Alfred said in his no-nonsense voice. "You are going to be pleasant and polite to Miss Gordon or I'll put you over my own knee right here and now."

I huffed in outrage, but Alfred continued,

"She was very kind to bring your homework and there is no reason you cannot study with her for a few hours and give me a moment's peace."

I didn't have time to answer because Barbara was returning and the cop car was driving away.

"Why don't you take Miss Gordon's books and show her to the den while I prepare some refreshments for the afternoon?" Alfred suggested. "I would offer some entertainment, Miss Gordon, but I'm afraid Master Richard has been restricted from all electronics."

I wanted to kick him in the shins (how could he embarrass me like that?), but Barbara shrugged. "I couldn't watch TV last month," she admitted to me. "Dad found out I skipped school one day to hang out at the park with Pam, and he hit the roof when the school called him."

"Indeed," Alfred smiled every so slightly and left for the kitchen.

I guess she wanted me to feel better, and I did a little, but by the time we reached the den, I was mad at her again.

"Thanks a lot for yesterday," I snapped, careful to keep my voice low in case Alfred should appear again sudden.

"Sorry," Barbara hopped back on the sofa, tucking her feet under her, "Pam can be mean. I told her it wasn't nice to rail on you like that, but you know Pam – always got to be causing trouble for someone. But enough about her. Go on, tell me."

"Tell you what?" I asked, sitting stiffly on the sofa beside her. I was glad she thought Pam was a brat, but that did not forgive her for laughing at me in the front of class yesterday.

"Tell me what happened to you," Barbara insisted. "I heard from Dad's lieutenant that the Joker had you, nearly killed you. I didn't say anything to our class, but I knew that was the reason you weren't there today. What happened?"

I began to tell her, starting with running from the school and meeting the Joker face to face. My words were rough and choppy at first, but as I kept going, I found it was easy to talk to her. She was a good listener, getting worried when she heard I woke tied up in the Joker's lair. When I got to the part about what was in the boxes, she drew closer to me, and when I told her how the Joker started sawing with the knife, she grabbed my arm.

"Dick," her eyes were wide with worry, "what did you do? How could you get caught like that, without any possible way of fighting him?"

I began to tell her how Batman rescued me, but she kept holding on to my arm. I really didn't mind. Barbara is kind of pretty, and she was so close I could smell the raspberry lip gloss she wore.

However, I was careful to stress that Batman brought me home to Bruce, not wanting her to guess Batman's true identity.

"Did Bruce just freak out?" Barbara demanded.

I blushed and stammered, "Yeah, he was pretty mad I ran off with the Joker loose. He – uh, he put me on restriction."

"You are lucky he didn't lock you in your room," Barbara observed. "If I ran off and the Joker got me, Dad would have kept me under lock and key until I graduated from college."

"Bruce was not happy," I said though I would never admit in a thousand years that I had been spanked. "He and Alfred keep yelling at me for stuff."

"Aw, poor Dick," Barbara pressed her glossy lips together sympathetically. "Everyone's beating you up. Can I see the scar?"

I would have pulled my shirt up and shown her the wound – my badge of honor – expect Alfred chose that moment to step in with a tray of lemonade, fruits, crackers, and peanut butter. It was kind of a babyish snack, but Barbara liked the buttery crackers and expensive peanut butter, and she said she loved lemonade the way Alfred made it.

"We live on frozen dinners at my place," Barbara confessed. "Dad can't cook, and I end up burning everything. I burnt Pop Tarts the other day – Pop Tarts! Dad keeps threatening to put me in an evening cooking class if I catch the stove on fire one more time."

"Well, we will just see if you and the commissioner can't stay for dinner," Alfred decided. He looked at me as if expecting I would protest, but I just shrugged. I didn't mind Barbara staying.

Alfred left, but I got the feeling he hadn't gone far, probably listening right outside the door. Oh, sure, he could do that, but when I listen, I get lectured about eavesdropping. And what does he think I'm going to do? I see Barbara everyday at school, and if I wanted to be mean to her, I could do it there as well as here.

"Hey," Barbara set her glass of lemonade down on the coaster, "so you know, the Halloween Dance is coming up, right?"

"Yeah," I nodded.

"The thirty-first?" she prompted. "Halloween night in the gym? Everyone dressed up in costumes?"

"So?" I shrugged.

"Come on, Dick! Do you want to go?"

"No, but Bruce will make me," I grumbled.

"No, dingbat," she rolled her eyes, "do you want to go with _me_?"

I thought I heard something bump in the hall, but I ignored it. "Just the two of us?"

"And Pamela," Barbara added. When I started to scowl, she protested, 'Oh, don't be like that. She's my best friend. We could all go together, the three of us. We could be the three Musketeers."

"You're girls," I pointed out though I really didn't mind the idea.

"We could wear the real costumes. And carry swords, real swords. And Pam will probably find someone to go with, too, but we could all ride together. Maybe you could ask Bruce if we could ride in the limo . . ."

"You just want me for the limo?" I demanded.

"Come on," Barbara insisted. "I want to go with you, Dick."

"Why?" I asked bluntly.

"Because we're friends and I know you'll be fun to go with," Barbara ran a hand through her reddish hair. "What do you want me to say? You're cooler than the other losers in our class, and we could have fun hanging out. What's your deal?"

I was shocked. Barbara thought I was cool?

"But yesterday everyone laughed at me," I objected.

"Yeah, 'cause you were goofing off," Barbara said, completely honest. "You knew the answer in math and you were obviously bored so you started fooling around on the board. And you're the only one who stands up to Mr. Horton. Today he noticed you weren't there and he wanted to know who would be showing him attitude, and no one dared to say a word. But you don't care what people think, unlike all the other morons at our school. So what do you say?"

If she had punched me and knocked me across the room, I couldn't have been more shocked. I had gotten into trouble so much the last two days, been spanked twice, and woken up from a nightmare last night, and Barbara thought I was some kind of cool rebel?

"Don't go on an ego trip," Barbara reached over to gently pop me on the shoulder. "You're still a jerk and an idiot sometimes, and you look really dumb in that blue coat."

I hoped Alfred heard that.

"Yeah, fine, we can go to the stupid dance," I said.

"Cool," Barbara grinned. "Okay, you want to play a game?"

"I thought you wanted to study."

"Nah, that's lame. Let's play a board game. You got Monopoly?"

Two hours later she was about to beat me (she got lucky and landed on all the orange properties her first three times around the board) when Bruce came home. He seemed surprised to see her and even more surprised to see us playing a game together.

"Hi, Mr. Wayne," Barbara smiled at him. "I'm about to cream him. He landed on Tennessee with three hotels."

"Isn't the limit one?" Bruce asked, amused.

"Not the way we play it," Barbara answered. "All right, Dick, you want to mortgage or start giving me your property? I'm thinking about putting a resort on Broadway."

"Call me in five years," Bruce commented. "We may have a place at Wayne Industries for you."

By the time Commissioner Gordon arrived, Barbara had beaten me and insisted on cleaning up the game. "It's only fair," she said as she stacked up the colored money. "The winner wins and they clean up so the loser doesn't feel so bad."

Maybe that's what makes Barbara so great – she has a real strong feeling of honesty and fairness. As we all went into the dining room together, I decided to forget the other day and all the nonsense with Pamela. Barbara was really too cool for grudges.

We had a great dinner, and then the Gordons left, the commissioner saying Barbara needed to work on her gymnastics before she went to sleep. Around nine, I was in my own room, pretending to do homework when I heard footsteps approaching my open door.

". . . absolutely necessary," Alfred was saying in the tone he usually reserves for scolding me. "It is your duty as the guardian, and you cannot escape it, regardless."

"Fine, fine," Bruce agreed, sounding reluctant, "I'll do it."

A moment later, Bruce stepped in my room and shut the door. "Dick, I need to talk to you."

I jerked my head up. "I didn't do anything," I protested. "I mean, I did turn the TV on, but Alfred came in and turned it off, and I only watched like five minutes and nothing bad."

"You're not into trouble," Bruce held up a hand.

"Then why do you want to talk to me?" I still felt panicky.

"Every time I want to talk you, you aren't in trouble."

"Yes, I am."

"Then shape up and stop getting into so much trouble," Bruce said shortly, getting irritated. A cough sounded outside the door, and Bruce sighed and said in a calmer voice,

"Okay, you're not in trouble tonight. But we need to talk about something very important."

"What?" I asked suspiciously.

Bruce shifted awkwardly, almost crossing his arms and then dropping them loosely by his side before answering, "Sex."


	6. Annoying

AN: I hope you enjoy this chapter. I made a reference to _Batman Begins_ – see if you can find it. And I really do think the movie they watch is scary. I've loved all the reviews from all of you– so cool to have people respond to my writing. I wrote this very quickly (I have papers still due), so I apologize for any typos.

Disclaimer: I do not own this, and I hope this story reminds you to see the movie this summer.

--

I stared in horror at Bruce, praying he was joking. Bruce never jokes, but all I could think was that he was kidding, bluffing, and a few seconds from now we would be laughing about his statement. However, his face remained serious, and he opened his mouth with determination.

"I know about sex!" I blurted out, frantic to get him to stop.

Bruce blinked, caught off guard for a second.

"I learned about it at school," I went on hastily.

Bruce frowned. "I knew I should have sent you to a private school. Those children have no –"

"I learned about it in health class," I told him. My face was turning red, my eyes were burning, and I had the horrible urge to start giggling hysterically though nothing was funny.

"Health class?" Bruce raised an eyebrow. "I don't remember you taking health class."

"It was part of gym," I explained. "We spent two weeks on . . . stuff. And I know how babies are made, from biology. I'm thirteen, not five! Everyone my age knows about sex."

"Maybe," Bruce did not look convinced. "I still think we should talk."

I groaned, slumping in my chair. "Why?"

"Because sex is more than just about sex," Bruce told me.

"That's stupid," I replied.

"Richard," Bruce's tone held a warning, "you don't talk to me that way."

"Fine," I huffed.

"Tell me what you learned – er, what you covered in class," Bruce told me.

I wanted to sink into the floor. I wished I had the courage to sit up and start spouting what I learned in the most graphic terms, being so crude and gross that Bruce would get disgusted and end the conversation. But I only shrugged miserably and refused to look at him.

"Okay," Bruce paced in front of me a few steps and then dropped in the chair across from me, "sex is something between a man and a woman –"

"Or two men or two women," I put in, remembering all the snide gay comments I heard at school.

Bruce blanched for a moment, then continued in a slightly unsteady voice, "Y-Yes, that as well. But for the purpose of this conversation, let's pretend it only happens between a man and a woman. Now, being male, you know about the guy's body, but a girl's is different."

I rolled my eyes. "Of course a girl's is different. They have breasts and a –"

"Yes, the other part," Bruce said quickly. "And in sex, the guy's body and the girl's body fit together in a very close way because they're sharing something very special."

It was like listening to a goody-two-shoes TV show for a three-year-old. Bruce was especially patronizing, nodding his head as he spoke as if that would help me understand all about this wonderful connection between men and women. Somehow, he explained the whole thing without mentioning a single body part or saying the word orgasm. For something so exciting, I was bored as he kept talking and I wondered if sex was as blah as he made it to sound, almost a chore of moving around into different positions (which he would not explain a single one).

"And afterwards," Bruce concluded, "the man and woman will feel slightly tired and want to sleep. The woman usually likes to be held by the man, and together in a hug, they go to sleep, very happy to be together. Do you have any questions?"

I jerked myself awake. The expression on Bruce's face, patient and attentive as if waiting for a silly question, annoyed me to no end.

"Yeah," I said bluntly, "when can I start having sex?"

Every villain inside Arkham would have given two weeks solitary in a padded cell to see Bruce's face right then. He looked like he was having a heart attack as his eyes grew real big and he seemed to have trouble breathing. I forced my own face to stay calm, like I was really expecting an honest answer.

"Dick," he wheezed.

"Yes, Bruce?" I asked politely.

"I – I . . . you need to – you have to understand. Sex is for adults."

"Hallie Woods got pregnant over the summer," I pointed out. "She's only a year older than me."

Bruce tried to speak, his mouth opening and shutting without a word coming out.

"And if sex is so special," I went on, "why can't I have it?"

"No," Bruce finally found his voice, "no, no! You're supposed to have sex when you get married. Only then, not before. End of story."

"But you're not married, so . . . you've never had sex?" I tilted my head to the side to observe him as if I was very curious.

Bruce looked like he had another heart attack. I felt a small sense of revenge at torturing him. Served him right for those two spankings he gave me. I knew he had dated before and if he said he hadn't had sex, he was lying, and if he said yes, he was a hypocrite for telling me to wait.

"That's none of your business," Bruce finally told me.

"Ha, I knew it," I jeered, smirking.

Bruce gave me another anguished look, and then he straightened, towering over me. "All right," his voice deepened, "let's make one thing very clear. You don't have sex, young man, until you're married. If I find out you've tried – and believe me, I will find out – you won't live to regret it."

"Do as I say, not as I do," I muttered under my breath.

A moment later, I was laying face down on my bed and Bruce was holding me down with one iron hand on my back. He swatted me across the backside with the other hand, and I grunted at the flash of pain.

"Now that I have your attention," Bruce said sternly, "let me say this – I am the guardian and you're the ward. You do what I say now, and when you've lived a lifetime of regret, loss, and fear, you can make your own choices."

"I was just kidding," I said from the bedspread. "I'm not going to have sex – I don't even know _how_ to do it. I haven't even kissed a girl yet."

"Were you planning to?" Bruce challenged, not letting me up.

"I don't know," I confessed.

"Maybe at the dance?"

"It's just a dance, Bruce. And I don't even dance. And adults will be there, and I don't know why you're so worried."

"Because at your age, boys start talking girls into doing things," he said above me. "This Hallie you talk about – she probably didn't even know what she was doing, and now she's pregnant. Girls can be sensitive at your age, and if I ever think you're pushing a girl into doing anything –" he stopped, letting the ominous silence hang over me.

I tried to picture a guy pushing Barbara Gordon into doing anything, or even trying to kiss her. I could see her kneeing him in the crouch and then bringing her fisted hands down on his back when he doubled over, knocking him to the ground. I thought Barbara was pretty safe as far as the guys in junior high went. Which reminded me . . .

"She asked me," I blurted out, still held down on the bed. "I was hanging around the house, and she came up and Alfred made me talk to her, and she asked me. Why aren't you yelling at her?"

"Because Barbara Gordon isn't my responsibility," Bruce ground out. "But you are, and I expect you to treat girls kindly and with respect, like a sister."

"I don't have a sister," I complained.

"Well, pretend like you do," he replied. "Someday you might have children, a daughter. How would you like a boy to treat her?"

I couldn't even imagine having a daughter or being married or even having a girlfriend. Why does Bruce have to put all these things on me? I just want to fight alongside him and put the villains back in Arkham, not discuss sex and respect for girls. Besides, girls pick on me, but he never cares about my feelings, only how I make everyone else feel.

"Let me go," I insisted, trying to push up off the bed.

I got another firm swat, and he ordered,

"Stay still. I want you to promise that you will act politely and properly and respectably and that I will never receive a call from some irate father whose daughter you have wronged."

"What if she wrongs me?" I said in a snippy voice.

He spanked me again, and I hurried to say,

"Fine, I'll behave and you won't get the call."

He backed off and I rose, whirling to face him.

"Why do you have to do that?" I demanded, resisting the urge to rub. "If I'm old enough to know about sex, I'm too old to be – you know."

"You," Bruce pointed a finger at me, "are never too old to be spanked. You remember that."

I couldn't really argue with him though I wanted to. He had proved he was right, but what he should have said was that as long as he was bigger than me, he could always spank me. Age had nothing to do with it, and I could only hope someday I would be as strong as he was.

"Get in bed," Bruce directed. "Thank goodness tomorrow is Friday, and we can get back to training over the weekend."

I got into bed and pulled up the covers, trying to look surly and uncaring. I had not brushed my teeth, and I wasn't going to tell him.

Bruce usually comes into my room to tell me good night, probably because he wants to make sure I'm in bed and not playing GameBoy with lights off, but I don't want him to make a big deal about it. He used to ask if I needed to use the bathroom – okay, I wet the bed like twice, but I was eight and my parents had just died and I had nightmares, all right? I haven't done it in years, but Bruce kept asking, all the way up to last month when I told him pointblank that I knew when I had to piss. He warned me not to use such crude language, but he hasn't asked since then.

"Get some sleep," Bruce told me, patting my shoulder.

It barely past nine, and I was tired, but I didn't want the night to end with him getting the last word. I waited until he reached the door and turned off the light before I asked,

"Bruce, can I masturbate?"

He said nothing. He marched out the door and shut it behind him firmly, leaving me in the dark. I snickered, glad to finally get him one on him. The score was now me – 1, Bruce – probably 1500. Still, a victory for me is a victory.

I waited until his footsteps disappeared, and then I rolled out of bed.

Moonlight shone through my window, and I crept across the floor, careful to avoid the one board that squeaked loudly. I settled on my stomach in front of the grate in the floor, slowly opening the vent and laying my head down on it. It was warm from the heat, but if I stayed still and I breathed quietly, I could hear everything that happened down in the den. Bruce liked to read in there at night, and he and Alfred usually talked.

I heard all sorts of good stuff from the vent, where Bruce was going next, who he had been fighting, what he was doing at work, and why he mad at me.

I had heard the whole "Dick has ADD" conversation from there, and I usually knew what would be happening to me the next day or two because Bruce would tell Alfred to pick me up here and take me there. Bruce doesn't always inform me what I'll be doing the next day; he thinks I'm still nine and will be happy to ride in the nice car no matter where we're going.

"You talked to him?' Alfred asked in a voice that was firmer than his usual tone with Bruce. Alfred's always nicer to Bruce than to me.

"Yes, not that it did much good," Bruce sighed. "He wasn't listening to half of it, and then at the end he started asking irrelevant questions to just to make me uncomfortable. I had to swat him twice to get him to listen."

_Three times!_ I corrected furiously but silently.

"I don't know what I'm going to do with him," Bruce went on. "I get so frustrated with him. If he's not goofing off, he's sulking and giving me angry side glances."

"He's still young," Alfred assured him. "He's barely more than a child."

I snarled in the darkness, but they could not hear me so it didn't mattered.

"I know, I know," Bruce said. "And I'm glad he's enjoying being a teenager and doing normal stuff and he's still excited about training with me but . . . is it wrong that I wish I could spank him every morning to get him to shape up?"

I sat up, horrified. How dare he say something like that? He was supposed to want to help me, not punish me.

Alfred, the traitor, chuckled. "Ah, Master Bruce."

"Yes?"

"No, I just remember feeling the same way when someone I know was not much older than Master Dick and just as impulsive and frustrating."

"Now, wait," Bruce protested, "I wasn't nearly as much trouble. I did what you told me."

"Indeed?" I could hear the smile in Alfred's voice. "I seem to remember taking one young man in his first dance who did not want to go, dressed under protested, and spent the entire car ride kicking the back of my seat until I threatened to stop the car and deal with him."

"I hated dancing," Bruce objected, but he seemed to be laughing.

"I also remember a young man getting suspended for a week because he was caught under the bleachers trying to take off a young lady's bra while they were kissing."

I nearly fell over at that information.

"I was older than Dick," Bruce insisted.

"You were fourteen," Alfred replied calmly.

"I had to be older than that," Bruce held his ground. "And you caned me for that."

"Indeed I did, and you deserved every stroke."

I dug my fingertips in the metal grate. I could not imagine Alfred ever punishing Bruce, not Bruce who did everything right and never made a mistake. Bruce was perfect – why would Alfred ever have to get on to him?

"I don't know what to do with him anymore," Bruce said after a moment of silence. "He keeps . . . annoying me."

"He's a teenager," Alfred told him, still talking in a calm voice.

"But when he came here, he was different. You remember what he was like back then."

"Yes, a sad little boy who missed his parents and wanted to be loved and comforted. You provided that for him."

"_We_ did," Bruce corrected.

"But you never expected him to stay that child, did you? I knew he would become a teenager and later a young man and then an adult. And you weren't just taking in any child – this was a child with very different circumstances. That's why I questioned if you wanted to keep him or not."

The words hit me so hard I could not breathe. Alfred had not wanted me? I couldn't believe it – I knew Alfred didn't like me to get into mischief and I caused trouble and didn't like his fussing, but how could he say something like that?

I waited, I prayed for Bruce to deny it, to tell Alfred he was wrong.

"Yes, I remember," Bruce admitted. "But you remember what I said at the time?"

"Then what can we do now?" Alfred said, his tone showing he didn't expect an answer.

Silence, and then Bruce said, "Good night, Alfred," and I heard him walk away.

I crowded over the vent for a few more seconds, hoping I would hear something else, but no sound came through.

I went back to bed, got under the covers, and stared up at the ceiling. Alfred had not wanted me. Why not? I tried to remember what he had been like when I first came. He had scared me when I had arrived. Bruce had opened the door, and I saw a tall man in black, just like the men at my parents' funeral, and I started crying.

I think Bruce talked to me then, and I'm pretty sure that Alfred talked to me as well, because my next memory of him was sitting in the kitchen, eating cookies and drinking milk that he brought me. He makes these awesome chocolate nut cookies that I love, and I remember trying to steal them from the pantry when he wasn't there. He caught me the third time and scolded me for running my dinner, and I wasn't allowed any dessert that night as a punishment. I watched him put the cookie jar up on the high shelf beside several cans of condensed milk, and he muttered something about keeping sweets out of everyone's reach.

I tried to put that Alfred with the one that just said he didn't want me. But I couldn't remember Alfred doing anything that would make me think he disliked me. He was always around when Bruce was away, and Alfred never seemed mean. He wanted me to follow the rules and behave – one when I was about nine or so, he told me to go brush my teeth and go to bed. I was mad because Bruce wasn't home yet (this was before I knew about his nighttime job), and I threw my toothbrush on the floor. Alfred swatted my hands, not really hard, and said he would be telling Bruce when he got home. I think I burst into tears and begged him not to tell Bruce, and I'm pretty sure I ended up in bed with Alfred sitting beside me while I cried and promised not to throw things in the future.

If he had not wanted me, wouldn't he have slapped me across the face, screamed at me to shut up instead of being nice about it?

I rolled on my side, staring at my clock as I tried to understand what this meant. Why did he act the way he did if he hated me? Why fuss over me, making sure I wasn't sick, being nice to my friends, breaking up quarrels between me and Bruce – it was weird that he would do all that for someone he despised.

It took me forever to calm down enough to go to sleep, but my last thought before I dozed off was that I would just keep out of Alfred's way and try not to bother him. Maybe if he didn't notice me, if I kept out of the way, he wouldn't hate me so much.

--

Friday was a normal day, and I went to school and told everyone about seeing the Joker. Alfred was out for the evening which I was glad, and Bruce had brought _Zathura_ for us to see. It looked really dumb, but I didn't say anything, not wanting to annoy him. We settled down to watch the movie on the huge screen in the movie room, and it turned out to be pretty good, kind of scary, especially when the sister got frozen and banged down the stairs like she was about to break into pieces. Bruce looked amused by the movie, and at the end, he commented, "I thought you would like it."

I don't know if he meant the story or scariness or the older brother who annoyed everyone, but I nodded along. I went upstairs to bed before Alfred got home. I meant to play Gameboy under the covers, but I fell asleep before I could.

Bruce was having coffee and reading the paper the next morning when I came down. I was careful to pick up my room and even make my bed, and I made sure the clothes I wore looked nice, weekend clothes of jeans and a long-sleeves shirt, but still nice. Alfred was standing over the stove when I came in, and he glanced at me. "At what breakfast would the young master like?"

Was he being sarcastic? I would have told him that I wasn't hungry, but I was. What was the easiest thing to fix for breakfast? Cereal? Toast?

"Whatever is the easiest," I replied quietly as I took my seat beside Bruce.

Bruce raised an eyebrow at me. "It's Saturday," he told me. "You can have Pop Tarts if you want, but only two."

I opened my mouth to reply that I didn't want Pop Tarts, I really would eat anything, but Alfred had already reached for the box.

"What else do you want?" Bruce asked after a sip of coffee.

"Nothing."

"Dick, we're training this morning. You need to have more than sugar. Alfred can fix you some oatmeal and turkey bacon."

I wanted to say no, but Alfred was already pulling out the two pans. I gave Bruce an agonizing look for making Alfred mad at me, but Bruce had gone back to reading the paper.

"Thank you," I said politely when Alfred brought my food. He smiled briefly and turned away, but I knew he was sneering at me on the inside.

What could I do to make him like me? I kept asking myself the same question over and over again as I ate. Maybe I could do some of the housework – I could vacuum and sweep and scrub the floors and wash windows and iron clothes. How hard could housework be? I would do my homework and I wouldn't try to sneak watching TV, and Alfred would realize that I wasn't just a pain in the neck, but someone who was worth keeping.

I finished my food, and I made my first step towards winning Alfred – I took my own plate to the sink. Alfred clears the table – when I first came to live here, he asked me to take my plate to the sink when I was finished, but that very night the plate slipped from my hands and broke on the floor. It was an accident, but after that, he said he would take care of the dishes.

But this morning, I stood up, put my fork and knife on my plate, and carried it and my glass to the sink. Bruce froze, his eyes watching me over the top of his coffee cup as I rinsed my plate and cup.

I turned to find Alfred staring at me. "Thank you for breakfast," I said.

"You're welcome," he said blankly.

"Bruce," I turned to him, "I'm going to go change for our training. I'll meet you down here in ten minutes."

As I left the kitchen, I heard Bruce ask Alfred, "What in the world's gotten into him?"

I hurried my walking so I wouldn't have to hear Alfred's answer. I was afraid it might be something like "Well, it's about time he shaped up," or something else mean.

I guess I could have worn my workout clothes to breakfast, but I was trying to make a good impression and a tee shirt and gym shorts do not impress butlers.

As I went into my room, I knew I would have to put worrying about Alfred on hold until later. Right now, Bruce would demand all my attention. Five minutes later, I headed down downstairs to train with Batman.


	7. Training in the Batcave

AN: Sorry I've been so long in updating this story. I've been working out recently, and while I haven't been training with Batman, everything is this chapter is as realistic as I can make it because I've been feeling the same thing as Dick, though not as intense and as long.

Disclaimer: I do not own.

--

The best thing about training with Bruce (other than just getting to train with Bruce which is the coolest thing ever because he's Batman) is the fact I get use everything I learned in the circus from my parents and the troupe. I might be awkward at school and not good at staying out of trouble and Alfred might hate me, but get me up in the air on a swinging rope and I'm free.

"You see," Bruce began turned on the lights, "I think it's important for – Dick?"

But I was already climbing up the handrails to the rope hanging over the Batcave, glad to leave the ground for awhile.

"Dick, I wanted you to stretch out first," Bruce lectured underneath me. "You need to start by getting yourself ready before you jump into –"

I leapt from the top platform and swung out on the rope. It felt so incredibly wonderful – just me in the air, almost flying. I soared across the top of the Batcave and grabbed onto another rope, daring gravity to pull me down as I flew.

When I soaring on the ropes, I can't think of any of my problems. Everything else fades away and I don't care about school or Bruce scolding or Gotham's villains. While I'm in the air, I'm free forever.

But of course I couldn't stay up there forever. All too soon, Bruce called me down. I slid down the ropes and jumped the last ten feet to land flatly on my feet.

"Stop showing off," Bruce said the moment I landed.

I wanted to retort that I wasn't showing off and how could I show off when only he was there, but I just replied,

"Yes, sir."

Bruce gave me a side glance, almost surprised by my answer. "Well, anyway, it's time to start our real training. We're going to run for a while. Then we're strength-training with stretching and then we'll end with hand to hand combat."

Not the most exciting of training (I keep hoping Bruce will teach me to drive the Batmobile but so far no luck); yet I said nothing as I got on one of the two treadmills. Running on the street isn't so bad, but running on a treadmill is pretty boring. Bruce has a flat-screen TV hanging in front of the machines, but he doesn't turn them on when I'm running with him. I think he watches the news for crimes around Gotham, but somehow he thinks I'm not old enough to see it. It's crazy – he's training me to fight crime but I can't see it yet.

Bruce sometimes makes so sense at all. On weekends when he lets me ride patrol with him, I get to stay up to one or even two o'clock in the morning. A few times, it got so late I fell asleep in the Batmobile and woke to find Batman carrying me out of the cave. But on school nights, he wants me in bed by nine o'clock. When we went to Arkham that time when the Joker saw me, Bruce wouldn't let me see any of the psychos or hear what they had done. Why take me on patrol if he wasn't going to let me do anything?

And if anything gets too exciting like hunting an insane killer torching abandon buildings and trying to burn homeless people, he locks me in the Batmobile and goes on foot by himself. But that's Bruce for you – he doesn't even like me to see PG-13 movies because they have "inappropriate content" which is a dumb way of saying he doesn't like sex or killing or swearing or anything else fun.

"I'm not a baby," I declared.

Bruce turned to look at me, never breaking his pace on the treadmill. "What?"

"I can see stuff," I huffed as I ran. "Stuff is rated PG-13 and I'm thirteen, so I should be able to see it."

"Concentrate on running," Bruce told me, that dismissive tone in his voice that meant he didn't care about how I felt.

As I kept running, I tried to figure out how I was going to get Alfred to like me. Bruce used to tell me that best way to make friends is to be polite and kind and not say mean stuff and try to think of things the other person is interested in. Maybe that works in kindergarten, but apparently I made friends with Barbara by ignoring teachers and not caring what other people said which she said was cool. Bruce would not like it if he knew, but I didn't plan to tell him anything. Serves him right for that awful sex talk.

But back to Alfred – I had to figure out a way to get on his good side. Maybe he did not like doing so much for us all the time. Bruce goes to work everyday and I'm at school, but I come home earlier than Bruce and maybe Alfred gets annoyed with me because I hang out and want to watch TV rather than do my homework. Did that mean I could never watch TV ever again? So unfair . . .

"What's wrong?" Bruce asked abruptly.

"Nothing," I sighed as I kept up my pace.

Bruce looked like he didn't believe me, but he kept running without saying anything. By the time I was pretty sweaty and tired, he stopped our machines and told me to get on the mat to start stretching.

Stretching sounds like an easy exercise, but the way Bruce does it, it's nothing short of torture. He makes me sit on the floor with my legs spread out and then he grabs my hands and begins to pull my chest flat to the ground. I find out I have muscles I didn't even think I owned, and he has me in all sorts of weird poses (laying out on my toes and my hands to strengthen my body, on one foot with my other foot and my arms out for balance, and then on my hands and knees breathing hard to expand my lungs). I hate stretching because I always hurt after it's over, feeling like pulled taffy, twisted every which way. He keeps saying I won't get too sore or stiff as long as we do this, but I don't believe him. I used to train with my parents for the circus, and I never felt as achy with them as I do with Bruce. I swear he does extra to just make sure I'm hurting by the end.

After a million hours of this, or thrity minutes by his estimate, we moved on to combat. Our shoes have to be off for this because we do it on the padded floor, and my feet felt odd as I stepped barefoot on the rubber.

I really like combat, especially the hand to hand stuff. It's the only time I'm allowed to hit, kick, or punch Bruce though I never get many hits in before he knocks me backwards on the rubber floor.

"Come on," Bruce urged, "try to kick me in the stomach. Remember to go fast and push with your heel."

I spun on one foot and tried to kick him in the gut with my right foot. But I wasn't chose enough and my toes barely grazed his shirt.

"Too far away," Bruce told me. "Come closer – always make sure you are close enough to land a hit. Even if you can't kick me, you can always knee me."

"But if I get too close, can't you grab me?" I asked. "Don't I want to leave enough room so you can't hurt me?"

"That's right – You wanted to be both offensive and defensive in a fight. Good boy," Bruce nodded.

I felt joy sweep over me – I love when Bruce approves of something I do. It doesn't happen very often so that makes it even better when he finally says it. But he kept going.

"Always keep light on your feet and never stay still. If you're bouncing on your feet, your opponent can't ever relax because he doesn't know what you're going to do next. If you walk up, stop, and then try to hit – he can see it coming because your arm or leg is the only thing moving. So keep moving. Try again."

I tried about twenty more times, and I finally got in what might have been a good shot but he jumped back before I could really cream him. We went on to punches and dodges, and I got flung to the mat a hundred times. It hurt every time I fell back, and once I got the wind knocked out of me. Bruce waited and put a hand on my back while I struggled for breath, but I didn't complain. I know I'm getting better, even if it takes me a long time to learn.

Next came wrestling on the floor which sounds fun but is really not! Bruce believes it's important for me to learn to fight back even once I'm down, so we start on the floor on our knees, and he pins me different ways and I have to try to escape.

This time it was especially not fun because Bruce made me lie flat on my back like I had just been knocked back to the ground.

"Okay," Bruce knelt beside me, "I just got you down, and I'm about to pound you some more. I don't have a gun, but I figure if I punch your face enough time I can kill you. You have to get away. Go."

Bruce clamped one iron hand on my chest and reared his fist back. I twisted to the side, managing to get on my stomach. But before I could push myself to my hands and knees to crawl away, Bruce shoved down on my back, and I slumped face-first onto the mat.

I tried to wiggle away, but Bruce grabbed my wrists in each hand and began to pulling my arms back.

"Ow, ow, ow!" I moaned as my arms were bent the wrong way. "That hurts."

"That's the idea," Bruce said above me. "Break free."

"I can't – I'm too sore," I protested.

"Oh, then I guess I'll just come back and kill you when you feel better," Bruce scoffed. "Of course you're going to be sore in a fight, and the bad guys won't care. Move, Dick!"

Snarling, I used the muscles from my stomach to help me buck my head up, hoping to catch his face. I didn't, but the surprise of it caused him to loosen his hold on my arms and I yanked out of his hold. I crawled a few feet before he grabbed me again.

This time he scooped his arms under my armpits and curved his arms back to hold the back of my neck. He lifted me up, my arms hanging out helplessly as his huge hands wrapped around my neck, my whole torso hung from his arms.

"No fair," I complained. "I can't even break free from this."

"Again, that's the idea," Bruce said. "Now fight back."

This went on forever. Every time I got free, he was on me in seconds, putting me in some tortuous new hold that made me wince.

"You ready to quit?" Bruce finally asked when he had me in the weirdest trap ever. He sat on the floor with one of his legs over mine, and his opposite arm holding me facedown with my torso crushed against his side and the floor. I don't know how I got there and I couldn't see anything but the back on his shirt, and he had my arms trapped under my body where I couldn't even rear up.

"No," I grunted, wiggling my rump back and forth trying to break free. I didn't want to quit training because the last thing Bruce has us do is the pole fighting. We each have a pole about three feet long (mine is slightest lighter than his), and we spar off at each other. It's almost like sword-fight, and it's my favorite part of the training. Bruce must know this because we do it last when I'm too tired and sore to enjoy it, the jerk!

"Then get free," Bruce told me.

I opened my mouth and tried to bite his side. I got mostly sweaty shirt in my mouth (yuck!), but I must have gotten some skin because he shouted and let go of me. I rolled free and lay on my back, exhausted.

"You can't bite," Bruce objected, rubbing his side once. "That's not fair."

"I have to play fair with the bad guys?" I looked at him, too tired to even smirk.

"You got me there," Bruce admitted. He stood up and offered me his hand. I took it, and he pulled me to my feet so quickly I nearly toppled over again. "Steady there. Go get the poles, and then we'll call it a day."

We only sparred for about ten minutes. I was so tired I could barely lift my pole to parry his blows. He whacked me twice on the shoulder when I wasn't quick enough to block, and then he caught me across the knuckles. I dropped the pole as I held my sore hand, and Bruce announced,

"Okay, enough for today. But you're making progress. We haven't trained this long and hard ever. Over three hours."

I nodded dizzily and turned to stumble off the mat.

Alfred was standing at the edge, his face serious. "All right, let's see the damage."

He motioned me to follow him to the edge of the Batcave where all the medical equipment is stored. He sat me down on the low metal table and reached to take off my shirt. I pulled away before I remembered that I was supposed to be nice to him so he wouldn't hate me, but Alfred had already yanked my sweaty shirt off my body. The air felt cold to my sweat-soaked skin, but I couldn't do more than just sit there and stare blankly.

"He's already starting to bruise," Alfred sounded cross as he sat on the rolling stool and reached for the stethoscope.

"He'll be okay," Bruce called back as he put up the equipment.

"You bruise him too much, and the state will sent someone over here to check up on him," Alfred retorted. He put the earpieces in his ears and lifted the round metal part to my chest. "Deep breaths now."

The metal was cold, but I tried not to move as he listened to my heartbeat and my breathing. When he moved around the back, it tickled on my prickly skin, but I kept still and concentrated on drawing deep breaths. It wasn't even lunchtime, but I yawned as he pulled away and put the stethoscope up.

"You're sounding better," Alfred said grudgingly. "Your lungs will strengthen the more you train."

Bruce came over with a short towel draped over the back of his neck. "Well, will he survive?"

I thought that was supposed to be a joke, as close as Bruce comes to joking, but Alfred did not laugh.

"He'll be fine. I'm going to ice down the bruises and then hot water and cold to ease his soreness. Then it's upstairs for lunch and a nap."

"I'm not tired," I answered out of habit, though it was not true. My eyelids were so heavy, and I didn't think I could lift my arms. I had entered that numb, exhausted state where it's hard for me to think clearly, and I didn't want to do anything except lay back and sleep. I didn't hurt anymore, but my whole body felt both weightless and a million pounds heavy.

Alfred began pulling out medical icepacks and breaking them. He made me lay back on the table while he pressed the packs over anywhere he thought I would bruise. I stared up at the ceiling dreamily, wincing a little when the ice felt too cold or he hit a ticklish spot.

"Completely careless," Alfred tsked as he raised one of my arms to get good look at my side. "You're still healing from the Joker's cut, and he goes around bashing you into the ground."

"I heard that," Bruce called from some corner of the Batcave.

"Well, I said it loudly," Alfred replied crossly. He went back to fussing over me, "Utterly reckless – at this rate the authorities will be swarming all over Wayne Manor, looking for the clubs we use to beat boys black and blue."

I wished I could assure him that I was fine, that I didn't need him to care take of me. I could take a shower and take some ibuprofen like Bruce did, but I couldn't even form the words in my head I was so groggy.

Once he finished with the ice, he helped me walk over to the medical steel tub. I clumsily climbed in, and he turned on the warm water. Once it was full, he left me to soak for ten minutes while he went to help Bruce clean up.

"I can't believe you are still thinking about going on patrol tonight," Alfred's voice drifted over my way. "He's exhausted, worn-out."

"He'll take a nap and be awake for tonight," came Bruce's reply.

"He'll be too tired to be any good," Alfred said.

I began to hum quietly, making a single noise at the back of my mouth to block out any more noise. I didn't want to hear Alfred next say that I was useless on patrol anyway and Bruce was wasting his time with me. The humming lulled me to a near sleep in the warm water, and when I fell silent, I couldn't hear anyone talking.

I woke up a little when he drained the hot water and refilled it with cold, but he wouldn't listen to my objections.

"I know what's best for you," Alfred told me, turning off the faucets. "This way you won't hurt too much later."

"I hurt now," I moaned as I leaned against the back of the tub, wishing I could jump out.

"Just try to relax."

That was easy for him to say – he wasn't up to his shoulders in cold water. It wasn't as cold as the ice, but it felt awful after the warm water. But I said nothing, reminding myself not to bother Alfred.

When the water torture ended, I got dressed in new clothes and slowly made my way to the elevator to go upstairs. Alfred followed close behind him, ready to grab me if I fell. Bruce had continued working out – showing off that he could train all day without getting tired.

I wasn't hungry when we went up, but Alfred got me to sit down in the kitchen and started putting food in front of me. I remembered to chew before swallowing, and somehow the food began to disappear in front of me. Once I had eaten enough to please Alfred, I began the twenty-mile hike up to my bedroom.

I wasn't planning on napping – only babies take naps. I would sit or even lie down on my bed and look up at the ceiling for a while until I got my energy back.

I flopped down on my made bed and sunk my head into the pillow. I yawned so wide I thought my head would split in two. When I stopped, Alfred was coming towards the bed with a blanket in his hands.

"Not cold," I murmured, snuggle down onto the top of the comforter.

"Your hair is still wet," Alfred objected as he covered me up with the blanket. "You need to stay warm or you'll get sick. Your immune system is always lower after a hard workout."

My eyelids weighted a tom, but I managed to say, "Sorry for so much trouble."

"No more trouble than usual," Alfred replied as he pulled the edge of the blanket up to my chin. "If you ever stopped being trouble, I wouldn't know what to do with my free time."

If I hadn't been so tired, I probably would have started crying. It was bad enough him telling Bruce that he hated me, but now Alfred told me to my face that he hated me.

I closed my eyes and just focused on how tired I felt. As I faded away to the darkness, I felt someone pat my shoulder. It must have been Bruce, even though I didn't hear him come in. Alfred would never pat the shoulder of the boy he hated so much.

And then I gave into the darkness and fell nothing.


	8. Stupid Riddles

AN: I'm going to see the movie, The Dark Knight, tomorrow morning so no one spoil it for me. But in honor of the movie and everything Batman, I give you another chapter.

Disclaimer: I do not own, but I wish I did – I really would like to drive the Batmobile to school everyday.

--

I woke up and noticed my muscles all stiff and sore, despite Alfred's care, but I rolled out of bed anyway. It was about three o'clock, and I was hungry. But best of all, I was going on patrol with Bruce. No, not just Bruce – Batman! I was going out with Batman.

I threw on some jeans, a tee shirt, and a hoodie. Bruce said he would be getting me a costume soon, something official with my own codename. I thought Superboy would have been cool, but that was already taken. I suggested Superdick to Bruce, and he told me to watch my mouth or he's be soaping it out. I know the other meaning of my own name, well nickname, but I'd still rather have it be Dick than Richard. Richard sounds too formal, too snobby, too Bruce-like, not that Bruce is a snob, but whatever.

I raced out of the hallway and collided straight into Alfred. He caught himself, but I stumbled back, horrified at what I had done.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I said in rush.

"Quite all right," Alfred said, but he did not smile. "Please try to slow down and watch where you're going."

His words hurt. I'm such a baby, but they really stung. I nodded, mumbled another apology, and walked away from him as fast as I could without seeming to go fast.

Bruce was coming out of the library, talking on his cellphone, "Yes, I need the shelves replaced . . . It's a library circa mid 1800's – of course it has wooden shelves. Pine, I think . . . I know people aren't using wood so much . . . Yes, I know it's bad on the environment. Damn it, Clark, what should I put in the library then? Bio-degradable plasma shelves?"

Bruce saw me and suddenly looked guilty for swearing. He said in a much calmer voice, "I'm sorry, Clark. I lost my temper for a moment. I consider you a very valuable friend and I should always treat you how I want to be treated . . . No, Dick did not just walk in . . . Fine, I'm lying. Find out what I should use for shelves and call me back . . . No, you are not my secretary . . . Don't make me come over there and tell Perry White to fire you . . . Bye."

Bruce's face was serious, but his eyes were smiling at he hung up his phone. I knew he and Clark Kent were good friends even though Clark lived way over in Metropolis. Clark had come to visit once, and though he looked kind of boring with glasses, he was fun to talk to, and he told jokes at the table though Bruce tried to look disapproving. Every so often Clark would sent me box with a book which was okay, but I'd find a king-sized candy bar at the bottom, wrapped in newspaper to make it look like stuffing so Bruce wouldn't know. And Clark reports on Superman so that makes him extra cool.

"What's wrong?" Bruce asked abruptly.

I promptly forgot about Clark Kent as I remembered my run-in with Alfred. "Nothing," I muttered. "It's just – never mind."

"Well, we're going to leave about nine," Bruce told me. "So we're suiting up a little after eight. Homework?"

"I don't have any," I looked away from him.

"Dick," Bruce sighed.

"I'll do it tomorrow," I objected. "Why do you care so much about homework? I'm going to fight crime, not become a teacher."

"You have to do something for a day job," Bruce insisted. "I do, Clark does-, uh other people do. Everyone has real jobs to pay bills."

"I'll do something," I shrugged. "Maybe invent video games."

"I'm sending you to a guidance counselor," Bruce followed me as I headed towards the kitchen. "And then a career counselor and then a life coach. How are you ever going to get into college with that attitude?"

"I'm not going to college," I sank down at the kitchen table and started eating the plate of sandwiches that was just laying there. Before Bruce could blow a gasket, I added, "I'm not smart enough for college."

Bruce seemed to swell with righteous angry. "Who," he demanded in a quiet, intense voice, "told you that?"

"People," I answered. "Students, Pamela."

"Pamela Isley?" Bruce asked. "The one you ran from Wednesday and found the Joker?"

"Yeah," I admitted ruefully, "but she's always saying I should be glad you can pay a college to let me in because otherwise I wouldn't go."

Bruce looked like he was going to be mad over that, too, but then he sighed. "Well, if worst comes to worst, you can go to the university here in Gotham. I've given them enough to take three of you."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I demanded.

"Keep studying and you won't find out," Bruce told me. He grabbed a stack of books and set them down on the table. "Now get to it."

It's always annoying how he knows where my books are at all times. I can't find them easily, but they always make themselves handy when Bruce is finishing up an argument and can slap them down in front of me to make his point. One day, I hope he grabs the wrong books, like telephone books, and then I can start calling people instead of studying. It's never happened yet, but one day – one day I'm going to get him back.

I began my algebra lesson, twenty-nine horrid problems that had a bunch of weird numbers and letters and lines going everywhere. I started working the first problem out on paper while Bruce poured himself a cup of coffee from the huge pot. I liked the smell of the coffee, but Bruce doesn't let me have much: sometimes a half of cup on Sunday, but that's it.

He had taken several sips when I looked up.

"Cam we kidnap the Riddler?" I asked.

Bruce looked at me in surprise. "What?"

"The Riddler – I mean, he seems to know a lot to plan those riddles and stupid questions. So he must be pretty smart. If we kidnapped him, he could help me with my homework."

Bruce's hand tightened around the coffee cup. "Has the Riddler ever given me a riddle I couldn't solve?"

"No."

"So doesn't that mean I'm just as smart as the Riddler if not smarter?"

"Yeah," I nodded. That made sense to me.

"Then why," Bruce's voice was sharp, "would you want him to help you instead of me?"

"Because he doesn't yell at me," I pointed out.

"No, he would sit there, making up questions to drive us crazy and trying to get out of the handcuffs."

"Why would he be in handcuffs?"

Bruce looked ever more frustrated. "Do you think the Riddler's going to just come here willingly? Of course, he's going to be in handcuffs and probably tied to the chair as well."

"Maybe we could pay him?" I suggested. "Or give him something he really wants? I wanted the Playstation III forever, but you said I had to be good and wait until Christmas. So I did, and I got it. We could that with the Riddler."

"You can't just –" Bruce broke off, too upset to continue.

At that moment, Alfred came in, and Bruce turned to him.

"Alfred, tell Dick we cannot hire the Riddler as a tutor for him."

"No, no criminals as tutors," Alfred said immediately, not a bit surprised. "No one who breaks the law in this house. Well, except for one."

He gave Bruce a side look, and Bruce bristled.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Bruce said, lifting his chin up stubbornly.

"Remember what I said five years ago," Alfred told him as he walked back to the pantry.

I felt my stomach hit my shoes. It was one thing for him to talk about how much he despised me to Bruce late at night, but to say it right in front of me -

I wished I could stay in my room forever, but I was stuck in the kitchen, doing homework. I was going to finish the work and leave, but Bruce all the sudden stepped beside the table.

He set a cup of coffee front of me. "Drink it before he comes out," Bruce said in a low voice. "We'll be out late."

I blinked, surprised that Bruce would let me have some. I was even more surprised when he added,

"I put some milk and sugar in it so it won't be too bitter. And if you drink it now, you'll be awake later tonight and not too jittery."

Alfred was still in the pantry so I gulped down the coffee as fast as I could. It wasn't too hot, but the taste always makes me wince. I don't really like coffee, but I want it when Bruce has it. I finished, and Bruce stepped to the sink to wash the two glasses out.

He left, and a few seconds later, Alfred came back. I tried to act like I was busy studying, and he began cleaning up. I heard him take up the coffee pot and mutter, "I declare, cut him and he would bleed coffee! A heart attack waiting to happen – he must have had six cups. I should just put the whole pot in the Batmobile."

I tried very hard to look casual and not guilty, but Alfred came to stand by my side and I froze. I knew my face would give everything away, but I had to look up at him eventually . . .

"Here," Alfred set a cup of coffee in front of me. "No doubt Master Bruce would disapprove, but it will be late and you'll be tired and he has no room to talk, anyway. I put milk and sugar in it."

I stared at the cup. I had just swallowed two cups of coffee, but I dared not tell Alfred that. And I couldn't refuse to drink it because he wanted me to drink it, and I couldn't risk annoying him.

"Thank you," I murmured as I took the cup and started swallowing it.

The second cup was much harder to get down than the first. I began to feel the brew churning in my stomach and already I was feeling jittery as if I had drunk a two-liter bottle of coke.

I finished and put the glass down, reeling slightly. Already I wanted to get up and start moving around.

By eight that night, I could barely keep still. I was dressed in a green shirt and red gym pants with a black mask that covered the top half of my face, and I bounced from foot to foot, my thoughts racing and my whole body nervous as heck. Where was Bruce, what was taking Bruce so long?

I wanted to get in the Batmobile and drive it, going so fast I couldn't even see the road.

"Get in right now because I'm ready to go, ready to go right now, because I'm ready to go!" I shouted out.

Bruce stepped from the small changing room, in his black Batsuit, but with his cowl off. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine!" I yelled before I realized he wasn't a mile away. "Just ready to go."

"No caffeine for you ever again," Bruce muttered.

Alfred was at the controls, ready to open the door once we were in the car. I got in the passenger side of Batmobile, demanding,

"Can I drive, can I drive, can I drive?"

"No," Bruce growled, getting into his seat and pulling on his cowl.

"Please, Bruce, please?"

"No," his voice was lower, more gravelly, "and it's Batman now."

He pushed button and the doors began to close, sealing us inside. My excitement reached a new level, and I began bouncing my legs up and down against the floorboard.

Batman pushed a button on his wrist-com, and he said, "Ready for clearance."

"Yes, sir," Alfred's voice came from the wrist-com. "Ready to open."

A part of the Batcave began to open, and the next moment I was looking at a field bathed in moonlight. Batman started the car, and it jumped to life, growling beneath us.

"Yeah, man," I yelled as he put the car into gear.

"Calm down," Batman order.

And then he pulled forward.

I've never done drugs before – Bruce once said he tan my hide for a year if I ever even thought about smoking pot – but riding in the Batmobile is probably the closest thing to a drug-rush I'll ever get. And the Batmobile has to be like a million times cooler than drugs and way more fun. But right then I was so high on caffeine that I cried out as we sped over the field and covered my face.

"We're going to die!" I protested.

"We're not going to die – you've driven with me dozens of time," Batman shot back. But he eased off the gas until I could drop my hands.

Gotham was pretty quiet for a Saturday night, but as we drove through the streets, I kept pointing out things that I had never noticed.

"That Chinese store had their name in bright green lights," I told Batman. "Can we stop for Chinese food – I'm hungry."

"You just ate," Batman replied, his lips frowning underneath his cowl. "And we don't stop for food."

"I could get take-out," I suggested.

"No food in the Batmobile," he said sternly.

We drove by a pet store next, and the sight of the puppy dogs pressing their faces against the glass was too much for me. "I want a dog," I cried out. "Why can't I have a dog? Please, just one dog? Why can't I have two? Everyone else gets two dogs. Oh, oh, we could have a 101 Dalmatians and keep them all over the manor."

The wrist-com buzzed again, and Alfred's voice said, "The Riddler's on the loose again."

"Where?" Batman was already opening his computer monitor that stood between the two seats just over the rocket launcher.

"Gotham Central Bank," Alfred replied.

"Got it," Batman was already keying in the location.

Five minutes later, he pulled the car under a bridge that ran right beside the bank and we got out.

"Stay down and stay quiet," Batman ordered. "I have no idea what the Riddler has planned."

I nodded, because I didn't remember how to talk quietly anymore. Batman crouched down and began to approach the building.

The Riddler really isn't a bad guy, I guess. I mean he does bad things and he makes a lot of trouble, but he isn't like the Joker who likes to stick knives into people. The Riddler likes to set up elaborate traps and have people try to figure them out. Only problem is, he tends to use dynamite to get people to go along, otherwise no one would play with him. That goes for Batman, too. I don't think Batman would even bother showing up just to answer the Riddler's riddles, but Batman will come if people are in trouble,

That's why we found the Riddler in front of the bank with two guards gagged and tied to a front pillar with dynamite and the Riddle prancing around in his stupid green costume.

"All right," the Riddler grinned the guards, "we have to wait until the Batman shows up and then the game can begin."

"Hey!" I jumped out where the Riddler could see me. "That's the Joker's line."

The Riddler froze, his expression completely bewildered. "Who the heck are you? Mini superhero?"

Batman stepped from the shadows, black and tall and menacing. The Riddler stepped back a space.

"Move out of the way, kid," the Riddler ordered, his eyes on Batman. "The men got some playing to do."

"That's so gay, it isn't even funny," I retorted.

Batman snapped his fingers at me, not an easy feat with gloves on, but it made a loud sound all the same. "Get back," Batman growled at me.

"Why?" I demanded. "He's not going to use the dynamite. You said last time it was fake, and that's probably why I get to come with you now. All this way, just for fake dynamite."

"Hey, dynamite's expensive," the Riddler protested. "You can't just find it lying around the street. And anyway, this stuff is real."

"Why should we believe you?" I retorted, feeling really good. My fingertips were buzzing, but I was talking super fast and super cool. "Prove it's real."

The guards began shaking their heads and protesting loudly behind their gags, and Batman clamped a hand on my shoulder, nearly knocking me backwards.

"Forgive my sidekick," Batman growled. "He's a little over-eager and he's going to calm down right not, or he's going to sit in the car all by himself."

"I'm helping," I protested. "He's the one that's got people tied up with fake dynamite."

"It's real!" the Riddler nearly screamed. He looked about two seconds from throwing a tantrum, all mad because he wasn't the center of attention.

"All right, Riddler," Batman's lips were a thin line, "what do you want?"

The Riddler tried to pull himself together, to look smart and threatening. "I-I-I want you to play the – _answer_ the riddle," he amended, glaring at me.

I snorted. "Oh, this is going to take a long time. What's dressed in green and looks like a man, but is really a dumbass?"

"Watch it," Batman ordered, but the Riddler stomped his foot.

"I am not a dumbass – I'm the smartest man you'll ever meet."

"If smartest means dumbest, then yeah," I scoffed. I wasn't scared – Batman would protect me, and it was fun to yell at a bad guy after one had tortured me.

"What's in my head could fill a dozen encyclopedias," the Riddler told me.

"Yeah, with blank pages," I quipped.

"Pages with words on them," the Riddler insisted.

"Typed by monkeys," I grinned.

"Batman," the Riddler whined, "make him stop. I'm causing a real crime here, and he's not taking it seriously."

"All right," Batman sighed, "take it seriously, Robin."

I blinked, confused. "That's not my name."

"It's your name for tonight," Batman growled. "We'll find you a real codename later. But for now you answer to Robin. Now, Riddler, what do I have to figure out for you to let these men go?"

"From the fake dynamite," I added.

"Forget the dynamite," Batman commanded, giving me a furious look from behind his cowl. "Just tell me the riddle."

"It – it," the Riddler stammered, "it was – look, Batman, I like it better when you work alone. Why did you have to bring him along? I can't even think with him yammering on and on."

"I don't believe you think at all," I decided. "I think you have an earpiece in your ear and the Penguin tells you all your lines."

The Riddle was furious. "I tell myself my own lines!" he screamed.

Batman sighed heavily and stepped towards the guards. "I'm untying them," he told the Riddler. "If you get my sidekick to shut up, you win this round."

"Ha!" the Riddler stepped in front of me, no longer caring about his captives. "What can run but never walks, has a mouth but never talks, has a head but never weeps, has a bed but never sleeps??

"I don't know, but it can't be any stupider than you are," I retorted. Man, it felt good to just let it all out.

"That's not an answer – you're not playing right. You're the stupid one."

"I know you are, but what am I?" I sneered.

"You're playing wrong! Play right, play right!"

"I play left." I jeered. "Do you stay in the stupid ward at Arkham or did they have to create a whole new room for dumb people just so you'd have a place to stay?"

The guards had run for safety, leaving the dynamite tied around the pillar, and Batman came back to us, not wanting to hear the squabbling.

"He's not playing fair," the Riddler complained. "I thought you good guys were supposed to play fair."

"You would think," Batman said wearily. "Riddler, stop fighting with the kid. Let us give you a ride back to Arkham and we'll call it a night. Come on, I'll drive through and pick you up something to eat."

"You said no food in the Batmobile," I protested, mad that Batman was being nice to the criminal. "If the good guys don't get to eat in the car, he doesn't either."

"If I can't eat, I'm not coming," the Riddler replied, crossing his arms stubbornly.

"Everyone can eat in the Batmobile if you just come along," Batman announced loudly.

The Riddler glared at me, but he finally agreed, "Fine, but it was a really good riddle."

"For a baby," I muttered as we moved away from the bank.

The Riddler turned to me, his eyes blazing, and he pulled a small black box from his pocket.

"No!" Batman yelled, but the Riddler pushed down on the black button.

Immediately, the front of the bank exploded, blowing out the two pillars with a terrified bang.


	9. In the Batmobile

Disclaimer: I do not own, and I'm going to see the Dark Knight for the third time tomorrow night, so yay!

--

It was one explosion too many, too soon after the library had been blown up. I jumped back, grabbing for Batman's arm without even thinking about it. A moment later, it was over with black ash and dust falling down, but my heart was pounding in my chest. I had been so stupid – what if I had talked the Riddler into proving the dynamite was real while the guards were still tied the pillar? They would have died, and it would have been my fault.

I looked up at Batman, and he stared down at me, giving me that stern look that promised he would be dealing with me as soon as he could. I felt even worse.

The Riddler was running away as fast as he could, his shoes slapping on the pavement as he ran from the scene of his crime, the explosion that he had caused.

Batman sighed as he pulled out a batarang and a length of cord attached to it. A throw and a yank, and he had the Riddler on the ground with the cord tight around his torso.

Batman grimly pulled him up to face us, and I couldn't help blurting out,

"You idiot, why did you blow the bank up?"

"I told you the dynamite was real," Riddler smirked, looking as smug as he could with his arms trapped to his side. "Maybe next time, you'll believe me."

"But you could have just walked away," I pointed out.

The Riddle blinked, and glanced hesitantly at Batman. Scowling fiercely, Batman glanced at the mess and shook his head as sounds of sirens filled the air. He was making a decision about what to do – I can always tell when he's trying to decide something even though Bruce thinks he's so unreadable with all his emotional control.

Then in flash, he grabbed Riddler's stupid bowler hat off his head.

"Hey, that's mine," Riddler protested. He made a movement to grab it, but his arms were tied to his side by the cord so he could only flap his hands by his side.

Batman took a metal bat out of his belt and stuck one of the sharp wings through the hat.

"You're ruining it," Riddler objected. "That's destruction of –"

"Of property?" Batman challenged. "You have no room to talk here, Riddler, so keep quiet."

He flung the hat and the metal bat, and they flew through the air until the bat stuck in a part of the wall, keeping the hat up as well.

"Our calling cards," Batman growled, "so they know who made this mess and who has apprehended you."

He grabbed Riddler by the back of neck, and then he grabbed me as well. His hands are hard ordinarily, but with the thick gloves on, he might as well have had iron hands. I was glad he kept his hand on the back of my neck though – his strength grounded me after the shock of the explosion.

He marched us to the Batmobile before anyone could arrive on the scene. I was hoping he might tie the Riddler to the pillar, rough him up a little, and then drive off with me in the Batmobile. That would be cool – to swing into the Batmobile and smirk at the Riddler right before we sped off. But instead, Batman stood us beside the car, trapping us side-by-side between him and the Batmobile.

"We're going to have a little talk," Batman growled. "Robin, let discuss your impulsiveness. Right here. Right now."

All the caffeine coursing through my body suddenly stopped, and I felt my stomach dropped into my sneakers. He would not . . . he could not – not here – not in front of a criminal, especially such a snotty, smug one.

"Please, don't," I begged before I realized I was speaking. "Please, Batman, please, I'm sorry. Don't – not here."

"You helped to goad a criminal into destroying public property. I can't let this behavior go."

"But he's the one who blew it up," I screeched, my voice horribly high. "He tied the guards up and he set the dynamite and he blew up the front. I was just – just . . . please don't, please, please, please, please –"

"Good grief," the Riddler interrupted my pleading, "what the hell is he going to do to you? I thought he was your leader guy, your trainer person."

"Mentor, you idiot," Batman snapped. The Riddler blanched at his hard tone, but I protested,

"It's not fair to punish me and let him get off free."

"He's not getting off free – he's going back to Arkham," Batman pointed out.

"Some punishment," I scoffed. "He was going there anyway, and they won't do anything to him."

"You're obviously never stayed at Arkham," the Riddler shot back.

Batman was still deciding what to do with me, and I prayed he would decide against punishing me out here. That's the thing about Bruce – when he's made up his mind, nothing can stop him. Then I just have to suffer through whatever he plans to do, knowing I can't fight him and running is useless, too. But if he's wavering at all, well, then I beg my hardest because he'll usually give in eventually. A "Maybe" from Bruce is as good as a "Yes," and I was going to beg on my knees if I had to.

"All right, we're leaving now," Batman finally made up his mind. "Both of you, in the car."

"It only has two seats," I said, trying not to show my extreme relief that I was not getting spanked, at least not now. I could stand getting walloped when we got home – I would hate it, of course, but at least I would not be humiliated by the Riddler watching.

"It's big enough for the two of you," Batman said in his no-arguing voice.

He was probably right – I'm not that tall and the Riddler's pretty thin and the seats in the Batmobile are pretty big.

"Robin in first," Batman held the door open for us.

I slid into the seat, but the Riddler protested, "What about this cord? I promise I won't run."

"Nice try," Batman said dryly. "Get in."

The Riddler crammed in beside me, and I glared at him, and he glared right back. He wasn't that old, and up close, he looked more like a college student than a man. Bruce leaned in to strap the seatbelt over both of us, clicking it firmly.

"I could have done it," I told him, but Batman just shut our door.

"Move over," the Riddler hissed.

"I'm crammed up against the controls," I retorted. "You've got enough room."

"My arms are tied to my side."

"Well, whose fault is that? You had to blow up the bank."

"I was making a point," the Riddler insisted.

"Yeah," I said sarcastically, "that you're a dumbass."

Batman's door opened, and he got into his seat and shut his door. He looked at the both of us for a long while, his lips pressed together in disapproval.

"Can we go already?" I finally asked. "We're squished in here, and he smells bad."

"I do not," Riddler objected.

He didn't smell at all – well, maybe a little of gunpowder, but I think that was more from the blast. But I was glad to rile him up.

"You do," I wrinkled my nose. "You stink."

"It's Arkham," the Riddler insisted. "They only let you shower for a few minutes, and half the time it's with cold water, and if they think you're going to try to drown yourself, they strap you down to a metal table with holes in it and spray you with the hose. It's awful."

"Then stop acting crazy and trying to drown yourself," I told him though I felt a little sorry for him.

"It's not my fault," he told us. "I never know what they're going to put the medication."

Batman turned to look at him. "They change your medication often?"

"Not just change it," Riddler said fervently. "Sometimes they put stuff in the food. I wake up some mornings and don't know if I'm imagining the clowns dancing around or seeing Joker's henchmen."

"Is Dr. Strange experimenting on inmates again?" Batman asked.

"Again?" Riddle laughed shortly. "He never stopped. I see these huge loads of drugs coming in, being carried back to his labs, and I know sooner or later he'll drag us back and shoot us up with that crap."

"Watch your language," Batman warned. "Has Strange . . . experimented on you?"

The Riddler nodded, swallowing hard. "Twice. I was freaking out. It was worse than any fear toxin I've ever taken, and believe me I've tried some stuff. He had me strapped down on a gurney, face down. But there was this hole thing for your face, so I was scaring down at the floor, and he injected the drugs into my ass – er, rear, and I started freaking out. I was screaming and begging – I thought my head would explode and my body was on fire, and he kept sticking those needles into me and giving me more and more –"

"That's enough," Batman said quietly, glancing quickly at me. "I'll be taking care of Strange later."

He turned the car on, shifted into gear, and sped onto the road.

The Riddler was sniffing, and unable to free his hands, he kept lifting his shoulders to rub his face.

"It's going to be okay, Edward," Batman said calmly.

I forgot that the Riddler had a real name, and it sounded odd for Batman to use it. I felt bad for the Riddler, but annoyed that he was trying to get sympathy from Batman. Bruce never felt sorry for me losing my parents, but he felt sorry for this criminal who broke the law. So unfair.

"Oh, stuff a sock in it," I told the Riddler. "You're in Arkham for a reason – you keep doing crimes and bad stuff. And pretending to cry is not going to distract us from the fact that you blew up the front of the bank. You're just trying to show off – wanting us to notice you, pay attention, spend time with you when other people are in trouble and need our help."

The Batmobile jerked to a stop by the curb so hard the seatbelt bit into my shoulder. I cringed, afraid Batman would start yelling at me, but he turned ominously to the Riddler.

"All right," Batman's voice was ever sterner, "who are you covering for, Riddler?"

"What?" the Riddler's voice was high-pitched. "What makes you think –"

"You're covering for someone," Batman cut him off. "You usually try to trap me in some elaborate riddle, and you only appear at the end, once I've won, for me to knock you out and drag you back to Arkham. Tonight, you have guards and dynamite tied to a pillar and you were waiting them out in the open – who are you working with? Who are you covering for?"

"No one!" Riddler's voice was as high as a girl's.

"Edward Nigma," Batman looked straight at the squirming criminal, "you will tell me right now or I will make this very uncomfortable for you."

"You won't do that," Riddler began to panic. "You're supposed to the hero of this town. You have rules."

"I have one rule," Batman growled. "I do not kill. But anything short of that, including beating you to a pulp, is allowed. Last chance, Riddler."

"I know n-nothing," Riddler stammered.

Batman let his breath out heavily, and then he reached for the door.

"What are you going to do?" Riddler cried out.

Batman kept his hand on the door as he answered, "I'm going to pull you out and lay you over the Batmobile. And then I'm going to take one of my clubs and beat you for a while. We'll see how long you can last. I've been told I have very strong arms."

"You wouldn't," Riddler whimpered.

I wanted to laugh at his fear, but I knew Batman was playing him, so I shrank back in my seat and tried to look like I was really scared of what might happened because it had happened before. I didn't think Riddler would buy it, but Batman reach to the back pulled out a thick stick. It was something Batman used that pulled out into a long pole for vaulting and jumping really high, but the way it was, it looked like a really, really heavy club.

"I'll try not to damage your kidneys," Batman opened the door.

"I'll talk!" the Riddler wailed.

I rolled my eyes, but Batman slammed his door. "Names right now."

"It's Crane," the Riddler gasped. "Scarecrow, you know."

"He got out of Arkham a month ago," Batman nodded.

"I know, he came back to visit me in Arkham," Riddler gulped. Sweat had broken out on his forehead. "He – he told me he was hijacking mob money. I was supposed to keep you busy while he did the job, and I would have done it except _he_," here he glared at me, "kept talking and confused me."

"So you were a red herring," Batman frowned. "A decoy to keep me busy while Crane did the real job and took the money. What did Crane promise you? A cut?"

"He promised me half," the Riddler said. "He got his guys to break me out of Arkham, and we were going to meet up later for him to give me my share."

"And you actually thought he was going to keep his promise?"

"Why not?" the Riddler's jaw tightened. "We're friends. Crane wouldn't double-cross me."

"Crane would double cross his own mother if he thought it would work to his advantage," Batman shot back. "The moment you show up, he's going to give you a face-full of nerve gas and leave you shaking on the ground."

"He would not," the Riddler insisted. "Crane would never do that, not to me."

Batman looked steadily at him, and the Riddler finally glanced down, defeated, but knowing Batman was right.

"That betraying, slimy motherfu-"

"Edward," Batman barked out as he started the Batmobile again, "watch yourself. There are children here."

"He's old enough to fight crime on the dark streets of Gotham, but not hear me swear?" the Riddler demanded. "What kind of a mentor are you? Come on, man, who are you really? Just tell me – I promise I won't tell them."

"Tell who?" Batman pulled the car forward.

"The doctors at Arkham. They really want to get to know the man behind the mask. But I'll keep the secret."

"Where is Crane?" Batman asked.

"I'll give you a clue. It's a place that's celebrated but once every thousand years though it offers to save for you every day, and –"

"More riddles?" I snorted. I though I had been really good and quiet up to this point. And the fact that I had helped Batman figure out what was going on, surely that was enough to get me off the hook. But I could not listen to the Riddler run his mouth again. "Do you ever stop? No wonder you don't have any friends."

The Riddler looked murderous, and then he rammed his shoulder into me.

"Hey!" I shouted, and I shoved back at him.

We pushed for about ten seconds until Batman slapped my thigh . . . hard.

"Ow," I jerked to a stop.

"Ha-ha," the Riddler jeered. "Look who got smacked."

I jammed my elbow into his thin stomach, and we were back at it again.

Batman swatted my leg again and then reached over to swat the Riddler's as well.

"Ow!" Riddler hissed. "What did you hit me for? I'm not your sidekick."

"You two behave, or I'll take a club to both of you."

"He beats you?" the Riddler looked at me in horror.

"He doesn't beat me – he just –" I dropped off abruptly, flushing.

"What, he spanks you?" Riddler sneered. I didn't know where to look, but the Riddler leaned back against the seat bitterly. "It figures."

"What figures?" Batman asked.

"I don't want to talk about it. Did you work out my riddle?"

"Yes, the Millennium Bank. What figures out?"

"That you would be the perfect father to him as well as the perfect guardian of a city," the Riddler sneered.

"He's not the perfect father," I blurted out.

Batman stiffened, but the Riddler turned to me.

"Does he come home drunk and beat up on you? Does he call you weak and pathetic because you wanted to go for the chess team instead of football? Is he going to kick you out the moment you turn eighteen because he can't stand the sight of your ugly face any longer?"

I looked at him and then glanced at Batman. But he said nothing.

"If not, then I think he's about as close to a perfect father as you're going to get," the Riddler told me. "So if he swats you a few times, be glad he doesn't use his fists just to teach you how to be a man."

"That's enough," Batman decided. "Here's the bank. I'll be right back."

"We can't come?" I protested. "I want to get the Scarecrow."

"And I want to pound his face into the cement," the Riddler snarled.

"Too dangerous," Batman told us. "There will be fear toxin, and I only have one face mask. I'm going to look for now. No fighting while I'm gone."

"You're his father – not mine," the Riddler retorted.

"One more word out of you, and I'll be more a father to you than you ever thought possible," Batman swung out of the car and shut the door.

I watched him run towards the bank, and then the Riddler started squirming again.

"What are you doing?" I demanded.

"Trying to get free," the Riddler told me. "I don't want to go back to Arkham."

"Then stop doing bad stuff," I rolled my eyes again.

"Is it that easy? Just don't do it because you might get caught? Does the thought of punishment keep you from doing something bad?"

As much as I hated it, he had a point. And that made me even madder. I could have helped him get free, but I wouldn't even unbuckle the seatbelt as he twisted and tried to bite at the cord to free himself.

He finally got one end a little loose, but I reached up and pulled the cord tight and twisted it underneath the rest of the cord where he couldn't reach.

"Sorry," I smirked. "That was getting a little loose."

"I swear, I will make you pay."

"Whatever. Stop moving. Man, I have to go." It was true – I had gone before we left, but the rest of the coffee was wearing on me and I wished patrolling came with bathroom breaks.

"Really?" the Riddler looked devilish. "Then just think of long, pouring waterfalls, and streams trickling down into lakes, and fountains gushing –"

"You do realize that if I pee it's getting all over you too?"

The Riddler shut his mouth and turned to look out the window. He managed to stay quiet for a minute before he huffed,

"What's taking so long? Beat Crane up and let's get out of here."

"These things take time."

"Really?"

"I don't know – that's what Batman always says. He wants us to go into things slow and easy. I'd rather jump into the fight. He makes me practice fighting for hours only so I won't have to do it for real."

"Adults, huh?" the Riddle shook his head. "They never make any sense."

"You're an adult," I pointed out.

"Hardly. People say I still look like a teenager. No one treats me with any respect at Arkham either. Not the doctors or the patients. I'm the smartest person there – you think they would treat me better, but someone's always picking on me."

"Life sucks sometimes," I agreed.

"At least you have him," the Riddler nodded in the direction where Batman had disappeared. "I mean, you get into real trouble, and he'll come save you. Must be nice to know there is one person you can always trust."

"I'm not letting you free," I told him bluntly, unmoved by his sob stories. "Even if I wanted to, he locked us in. It would take a bomb to get us out of here."

The words were barely out of my mouth when a huge explosion lit up the darkness. It was ten times bigger than the dynamite the Riddler had used.

I almost lost it in the Batmobile, and I mean really lost it, bladder, control of my body, wanting to scream for Batman. If he blew up in the explosion –

I unbuckled the seatbelt and reached down to push the special button that Batman had shown me for emergencies, when I had to get out of the car. I heard the doors unlock and I reached over the Riddler to push the door open.

The moment it was free, I shoved him hard. He tumbled out with a cry and hit the pavement. I leapt out, stepping on him as I went, but I paid no attention to his squalls as I began running towards the billowing smoke.

I needed Batman – I needed to know that he was still alive. And if anything, anything at all, had happened to him, I would destroy Crane with my bare hands. I wanted the Scarecrow's blood; I planned to tear him apart and listen to his pleas as I did it.

As I ran, I heard my voice screaming out for Batman, but inside my head, I was calling for Bruce.


	10. Scarecrow

AN: I finally am writing another chapter. I promised to update more frequently, and I'm trying to keep that promise. Enjoy.

Disclaimer: I do not own.

--

I ran in the billow smoke and falling debris, yelling, "Batman, Batman? Where are you? Talk to me – please! Don't die. Batman!"

No answer came back, and I began climbing over the crumbling chunks of the bank as fast as I could. Panic filled me; I could barely breathe and the smoke made my eyes water.

I stumbled over rumble and fell to my hands and knees.

"Oh, delightful," a voice smirked over my head.

I looked up to see the Scarecrow towering over me, the burlap bag over his head.

"And the children looked up in fear and begged for a savior," the Scarecrow raised his hands. "But no answer came to save them."

It sounded like he was quoting a book, but I've never read a book like that, and I hated him right then.

I flung my body at him, pivoting on my arms and kicking him solidly in the knee. He fell down with a cry.

"Nooo!" he moaned, clutching at his knee. "No, I wasn't finished. You have to let me get my lines in."

"Bastard," I screamed at him. I drove my elbow into his back, and he fell forward with a grunt.

"You killed him!" I screamed. "You killed Batman, and you're gonna pay."

I ripped his mask off, and he looked up at me, terrified. Like the Riddler, Jonathan Crane didn't seem older than a college student, but I didn't care if he looked like a homeless puppy – he was going to die.

I began to use every move Bruce had every taught me: karate chops, punches from the shoulder, even head butting. Crane covered his head and squalled like a baby, and I would have laughed at his cowardice, only I wanted to tear his throat out.

"Please!" Crane wailed.

I grabbed two handfuls of his hair. "I'm gonna rip your scalp off!" I screamed.

Two strong hands grabbed me from behind, but I kept my grip on Crane's hair, and he shrieked in agony as I was pulled back.

"Let him go," a stern voice commanded from behind me.

I knew the voice, I had heard a softer version of it everyday for the last five years. I let go of Crane – he faceplanted in the rumble with a grunt – and I whirled around and hugged the dark figure behind me. I buried my face in his solid chest, smashing my masked face against the bulletproof suit.

"I thought you were dead," I sobbed.

"Shh," he whispered, hugging me close. "Keep it together. You can't tell them who I am. I know you're upset – we'll talk later. I'm alive and you have to hold yourself together."

I nodded and Batman let go of me.

Crane was still groaning on the ground, and Batman used his steel boots to roll him around. Crane stared up at us blankly for a second, blood oozing gently from his nose.

"Get him," Crane pointed a shaky finger at me. "He tried to kill me."

"This is Robin, my new partner," Batman replied.

"Wha-what?" Cane pushed himself to his elbows. "He started pounding me. You're good guys – you're not supposed to hurt me."

"I'm not a good guy," Batman snarled in that low gravelly voice that strikes fear into everyone (including me). "I'm the Dark Knight. And right now, Crane, I'm your worst nightmare."

It felt so good to stand beside him. I swiped away the last of my tears and copied his stance, glaring down at Crane, too.

"I've heard that before," Crane scoffed.

"Do you want to hear the sound of my fist knocking you unconscious?"

"No," Crane sneered, looking ugly and sulky.

"Why did you blow up this bank?" Batman demanded.

"I'm not telling you."

"You can me now or I can dangle you over the river from a crane until you decide to talk."

"Ha," I jeered. "Crane hanging from a crane."

"Shut up," Crane told me. "You deserve to be locked up for what you did. If you broke my nose –"

"You blew up a bank," Batman interrupted. "You could have killed many people. You may have, as it is. Start talking."

"Well, Riddler was supposed to divert you long enough for me to get away with the money. But since that crybaby can't do anything except brag about his own useless talents, I guess I'm on my own," Crane retorted. "I wanted money – loads and loads of it so I could build . . . something."

"Something?" I wanted to make a face. Criminals were so stupid. "Like a giant rocket?"

"No," Crane glared at me.

"A beam to vaporize all of Gotham?"

"No."

"A huge criminal organization where you can brainwash soldiers into your thugs and you'll have an army big enough to take over Gotham?"

"No," but Crane looked very thoughtful.

"Don't give him ideas," Batman lectured. "Well, Crane?"

"Hey, I got out of Arkham and I was practically living on the streets," Crane raise his hand to his nose and then scowled at the blood which coated his fingers. "You have no idea what that can do to a man like me. I understand the human brain like no one else. I want to build a laboratory where I can take the brain to its farthest reaches, explore the mind like never before."

"Crane," Batman sounded frustrated, "you can't build a lab to test on human subjects. No one would volunteer, and then you'd be kidnapping, and then guess who would show up to drag you back to Arkham?"

"You don't scare me, Batman. You belong in a padded cell with the rest of us. And once I have my lab, I'm going to lock you up in it to find what's in the Bat's mind. And once I get you drooling in a straightjacket, I'm coming after your little partner, too." Crane snapped his teeth at me.

Batman suddenly reached out and grabbed the back of Crane's neck, hoisting him into the air. Crane gave a high shriek, but Batman held him up, eyes blaring with rage.

"Don't threaten my partner," Batman ground out each word.

"Oh," Crane garbled, trying to still look scary, "what you're going to do? Face it, Bats, you don't have the nerve to deal with me. You never did, and I'll do what I like, including experimenting on people's minds and dissecting their brains."

Batman said nothing for a second and then he slowly lowered Crane to the ground.

"Ha," Crane rubbed the back of his neck and tried to look tough, "I knew it. Under that suit, you're just a pail of slimy worm guts begging for someone to notice you."

"Maybe," Batman reached to his belt and then brought his hand up to Crane's face, "but this pail of worm guts thinks it's best to give you a dose of your own medicine."

"You're going to blow up something?"

"No," Batman replied, "I'm giving you a taste of that fear toxin you enjoyed years ago."

I blinked, but Batman was already spraying something into Crane's face. It must have been awful because Crane started screaming and batting his hand in front of his hand.

"No, no, get back you monster!" he hollered at Batman. "Fire's coming out of your eyes. And the spiders are everywhere."

I jumped, glancing around me. Fortunately, I saw no spiders, but then Crane was staring at me with wide, crazy eyes.

"He's flying," Crane thrust a shaking finger at me. "He's flapping his wings and rising off the air, like a pterodactyl, but his teeth are growing!"

I wasn't moving, but I watched fascinated while Crane freaked out. He fell to his hands and knees at Batman's feet, begging and sobbing and acting like a four-year-old. It was the sweetest thing I had ever seen.

Batman took out a length of cord and pushed Crane on his back. Crane bawled, but Batman tied his hands behind his back and then bound his feet together. Then Batman slung Crane over his shoulder and started marching through the debris.

All the smoke had cleared by now, and I could see a truck waiting in the distance. Three goons were tied up and piled on the open back, knocked out.

I followed Batman, and walking behind him, I could do stuff only Crane could see and not Batman. I know it wasn't nice, but I pulled my gloved hands into claws by my face and bared me teeth, lurching forward like I was a monster about to eat him.

Crane freaked out, bucking over Batman's shoulder. "It's gong to kill me," he screamed.

Batman tightened his grip around the writhing criminal. "Settle down, Crane," he ordered.

Crane relaxed the smallest bit, and then I jumped at him again. He resumed bucking, and Batman threatened to knock him out. I did it two more times, and then Batman whirled around and gave me a Look.

I jerked to a stop, guilty. "Well, he deserves it," I muttered.

Batman shifted Crane's body up an inch. "In front, and don't push it with me."

I sighed and got in front of him to trudge to the car. I know Batman was strong, but it still had to be hard to carry Crane when he struggled. But I felt a little sense of revenge at scaring the moron after he had frightened me so badly.

We finally reached the truck and Batman set Crane down on the back of the truck.

"No, don't leave me," Crane pleaded. "Don't leave me with those monsters," he motioned with his head to the unconscious thugs.

"You won't be alone," Batman assured him. "The police well be here soon."

The moment he said that, I heard the wail of police sirens approaching. How did he know they were on the way? Someday, I hope I will know everything that happens before it happens, just like he does.

"I'm watching, Crane," Batman said, his voice low. "I'm the Dark Knight of this city, I'm its protectorate, its savior, and its vengeance. I have eyes everywhere. You can never escape me as long as you are here."

Crane gave a scream of fear, but Batman continued, "The toxin will wear off soon, but just in case you forget –" he took out a tiny metal batarang and tucked it in Crane's coat pocket – "remember my sign."

"Get it off me, get it off me!" Crane wailed.

"Let's go," Batman ordered.

We began jogging back towards the Batmobile while Crane begged us not to leave him. I wanted to turn back to make more faces, but Batman kept us going.

Of course, once we reached the car, the Riddler was gone.

"Sorry," I sighed. "I saw the explosion, and I freaked out. I opened the door and pushed him out and then I just kept running and running. I had to find you because I thought that – that," the lump came back into my throat.

"I understand," Batman said. "We'll talk about it later. Right now, we go get Edward. When I buckled you two in, I put a tracer on the back of his coat. I planned to take it off once we got him back to Arkham, but I thought I should have a mark on him in case he slipped away."

Batman is so smart. I grinned at him before getting into the car. Once he swung in and started the engine, a screen appeared on the dashboard. It showed a grid map with a single red dot blinking on it. Batman pulled the car out of the shadows and sped down the street.

He turned once, and then twice, maneuvering the Batmobile through the dark streets. A few times I thought he would hit a car or trashcan or corner of a building, but he kept speeding the car along without a scratch.

"There he is," Batman said, turning the car onto another street. "When we get him, can you be civil and not try upset him?"

"He's the bad guy," I protested, immediately falling back into my disgruntled mood. "Why do you care how I talk to him?"

"You can't go around trying to provoke criminals into action – that's counterproductive and we have two destroyed banks thanks to you."

"I didn't provoke the second one!"

"Maybe, but you didn't help. I told you to stay in the car, and I meant you to obey, Robin."

"I hate that name," I tried to change subject. "It's stupid."

"It is not," he replied.

"It's babyish. My mom used to call me that when I was little."

"I know," Batman said quietly.

I glanced up at him, but he had his eyes on the road.

"Are you going to behave yourself?" he asked suddenly.

"What? Oh, yeah, of course."

"I don't like you baiting the criminals," Batman continued, his voice stern and his lips pressed into a stern line. "You have to learn to control yourself."

"Sorry," I said again. "I think it was the coffee."

"You only had one cup."

"But Alfred gave me one, too," I confessed.

Batman opened his mouth furiously, but he only said, "We'll discuss it later."

Then he pulled the car to a halt in a dark alley and killed the engine.

"Stay in the car and obey this time," Batman commanded.

I nodded and watched as he closed his door and disappeared into the darkness of the night. I waited, trying to calm my feelings after such a horrible night.

Just when I started to get bored, Batman reappeared, marching towards the car with the Riddler, frog-marching the criminal with the Riddler's hands tied behind his back. The Riddler's face was miserable, and when he saw the car, he looked even more desperate and babyish.

"Oh," I jeered as Batman opened my door, "look who's back. Did you miss us that much?"

The Riddler got into the seat beside me, and Batman buckled us in. As the door shut, tears began rolling down the Riddler's face.

I wanted to jab him in the ribs or torture him somehow, but then Batman got in and started the car. As we pulled out of the dark alley, the Riddler kept crying just like a big baby.

"What a pussy," I said scornfully.

"Robin!" Batman barked at me, and his tone implied there would be soap if I didn't watch my mouth.

"Like a cat," I explained, though I know the other meaning of the word.

"Watch yourself," he warned.

"I don't want to go back to Arkham," the Riddler whined.

"Then you shouldn't commit crimes," Batman replied. "You've cost the city thousands in damages uy blowing up the front of that bank. Who do you think pays that? Honest, hard-working citizens who pay taxes and put their life savings into banks. You're reckless and acting out to get attention. Well, you have my attention. What do you have to say for yourself?"

The Riddler panted and cried and sniffed, but he finally said, "You know what I want. I want people to play my games, answer my riddles."

"You sound like you're five," I scoffed. "'Come and play with me' – so lame."

"You're lame," the Riddler shot back. "You look stupid in that mask and gym clothes."

"And you look stupid in green, the color of slime and – and puke."

The Riddler glared at me, but at least he had stopped crying.

"Anything else I should know about tonight?" Batman asked. "Any other Arkham inmate planning to blow up something else?"

"Not tonight, but next weekend –" the Riddler stopped short. "Wait, if I know something can I use it as leverage to make a deal?"

"You're still going back to Arkham," Batman told him.

"Yeah, but you could put in a word for me, tell them I didn't blow up the building or didn't mean to or something to keep me out of solitary for the next week. Please, don't let them put me in solitary – I go crazy in there."

"More than usual?" I asked.

"Robin," Batman scolded, but I saw his lips smile for a second.

"Please?" the Riddler sounded even more distraught.

"Fine, I'll put in a word for you," Batman agreed. "What do you know?"

"Word is that Dr. Freeze is cooking up something at Gotham Museum when the Paris Exhibit comes Friday. Something about wanting the diamonds from the crowns."

"I'll make a note of that," Batman agreed, gripping the steering wheel tighter.

The rest of the ride was pretty quiet, and once we got to the gates of Arkham, Batman ordered me to wait in the car while he took the Riddler up. I heard the Riddler beg to be let go and then sounds of a scuffle and then silence. I knew Batman had found a way to get him up to Arkham, and I winced. He's strict as Bruce and Batman, but at least he's on my side. I couldn't imagine what it would feel like to have him sock me in the gut with those gloved hands or kick me in the side. Our training sessions are the roughest Bruce ever is with me, but I know he can be merciless with villains. Scary.

Suddenly the car started. I grabbed the edge of my seat, but the car began to steer itself around Arkham. I knew Batman had a remote to car with him, and I hoped he was the one steering the car and not someone.

I had once heard Alfred tell Bruce that he worried about him going to Arkham as Batman. "If they managed to subdue you in there, sir," Alfred had protested, "do you think they would ever let you out? And once they unmasked you and discovered your true identity, not all the money in Gotham could break you free of that cursed place."

I peeked up at the sprawling asylum, shuddering at the thought of Batman being caught behind the barred windows. I don't know what I would if Batman ever got locked up.

The car rolled to a stop behind the huge asylum, and I saw Batman leap from the top of the huge stone wall, barely missing the rolls of barb wire at the top.

His door opened before he got to the car, and he jumped in, staring the Batmobile and shoving it into gear.

"What happened?" I asked nervously.

"Nothing," Batman replied. "The guards are getting a little . . . pushy. I thought it would be better to leave the back way."

"Was the Riddler crying?" I smirked.

"Not too much," Batman admitted. "But I think it's time you and I had a serious talk."

"It's too late," I argued.

"No, it's barely – 3 o'clock . . ." he trailed off as he saw the clock in the dashboard. "Still, we have a few minutes on the drive home. You want to tell me why you've been so moody these last few days?"

"I haven't," I snapped.

"Yes, you've gone back and forth between being angelic good and then surly and sour. What is going on?"

I meant to reply that nothing was going on – I had just had a hard week between Selina and the girls and the Joker. I meant to explain to Batman that I was no longer a child, and I got tired of him treating me like one, and I would act older if he would treat me older and recognize that I kept doing the best I could. However, what actually came out of my mouth was,

"Al-Alfred hates me." And then I felt so tired and unhappy I almost started crying.

"What?" Batman demanded.

"He said so," I protested. I can't really keep secrets from Bruce, but keeping them from Batman is impossible. "I heard you talking the other night downstairs. He said he asked you, when you first got me, if you wanted to keep me and – and – and that means he didn't want me because he hated me.

Batman stared at me for a second.

Nervous, I glanced towards the windshield and blurted, "Batman, the road."

He jerked his head back and then swerved around a parked car. "We'll deal with this when we get home."

"I'm in trouble? How can I be in trouble when it's Alfred who hates me?"

"When we get home, Richard," Batman thundered, using my real name for the first time since we left the Manor.

I sank back into my seat. It felt like I had a lump of lead in my stomach, but at least I would finally be getting some answers. I only hoped Batman, er – Bruce, wouldn't do anything to make Alfred more upset.


	11. Cool

AN: Another chapter just for New Years. Hope you all like.

Disclaimer: I own nothing, but I kind of want a Batcave for myself.

-------

When we finally pulled into the Batcave, I dragged myself out of the Batmobile. Batman tugged off his cowl and became Bruce again, his hair sweaty as it always was under the tight mask.

I shifted my weight from foot to foot, suddenly aware of all the coffee I had drunk earlier. I was surprised that I hadn't peed all over myself with all the explosions and fighting.

"What?" Bruce barked at me.

"I gotta go," I whined.

"Thirty seconds," Bruce pointed to the bathroom off the cave. "Thirty, twenty-nine –"

I dashed to the bathroom and shut the door. I came back at second number three, feeling much better, but Bruce looked ever more upset. He clamped a hand on my shoulder, digging his fingers in, and ordered, "Move it."

"Where are we going?" I asked nervously.

"To set you straight," Bruce snarled.

He kept hold of me as we rode up the elevator, and then he marched me up the stairs. I could hear him breathing hard, angry breaths the longer we walked, and I wished I could figure out a way to make this all go away. One day I was going to find a way to calm Bruce down when he got mad at me, but until then, I had to be dragged around the manor and blamed for everything.

Bruce went right up to Alfred's closed door and banged on the wood.

"Alfred," he bellowed out.

A moment of silence, and then Alfred replied, "Master Bruce? Is that you, sir?"

"Yes, can I come in?"

The door pulled open, and a very worried Alfred looked out, dressed in pajamas and a robe. "What's wrong, sir? Are you hurt? Master Dick, is he all right?"

"We're fine," Bruce told him. "Dick, here, told me something very interesting. Tell him what you told me."

I shied away, trying to turn back against Bruce, but he pushed me forward and ordered, "Tell him."

I hated Bruce right then, hated everything about him. Him and his yelling and demanding and making people face problems instead of hide from them like everyone should do. Anyone else would have waited until morning and then sat us both down and calmly explained everything. But no, freakin' Batman had to confront freakin' everybody.

"I - I said that you – you," I glanced up at Bruce. He looked right back at me, furious, his face hard as iron. "You don't like me," I confessed, dropping my gaze to the floor.

"Excuse me?" Alfred asked, but his tone was confused, not angry.

"He said that you don't like him," Bruce confirmed, his fingers digging deeper into my shoulder.

"I heard you talking one night," I protested when Alfred said nothing. "I heard you talking to Bruce and _you_ said I was nothing but trouble," I glared at Bruce. "And then Alfred said that he had asked you if you wanted to keep me when I first came here. Then Alfred said he didn't like me."

"He never said that," Bruce argued. "I was talking to him, and I know he never said that."

"I know he said that – I heard him," I protested.

"I remember that night," Alfred nodded slowly. "After the – um – birds and the bees talk. I reminded Master Bruce of what I told him when Master Dick first came to us. Master Bruce remembered what I said, so I did not say the words aloud. Should I say them now?"

"No," I protested before I could stop myself.

"Tell him," Bruce commanded.

"You arrived, a child grieving from the deaths of his parents, and Master Bruce wanted to keep you. On the evening of your second day here, I made Master Bruce sit down and listen to what I had to say. I reminded him that he chose the life of a crime-fighting vigilante. Along with Batman, he was also Bruce Wayne, a powerful leader of Gotham who had responsibilities to his business and his comapny. I asked him if he thought he could add the role of guardian to his life. I told him point-blank that I would not be responsible for the welfare of the child and that he must fulfill his role of guardian. If at any time he began to slip from the overwhelming pressure of all his duties, he would have to choose between giving up Batman or Wayne Enterprises, but he could never, ever neglect his ward. You would always come first."

I had nothing to say so I just stared at him.

"I told Master Bruce that he must learn to step in the role of parent and once he did he could not stop. I told him to think long and hard if he was ready to become a father for all intents and purposes because once he decided to keep you, I would never allow him to recant on that decision. He chose to let you stay, and I have only had to remind of his duty to you three times since that night."

"I'm sorry," I said in a rush. "I sorry I thought that. It's just that – I know sometimes I screw up and you get mad and –"

"You are only thirteen," Alfred interrupted. "I must have patience with you as must Master Bruce. But you are quite a remarkable young man, and I am thankfully every single day that Master Bruce decided to let you stay. I can't imagine Wayne Manor without you."

I smiled, so happy and warm inside. Alfred liked me – wanted me to be there. I had never felt better. I turned to look at Bruce, to see if he felt warm and cozy like me.

"You doubted Alfred!" Bruce roared at me. "After all he has done, after all the sacrifices he made, you decided to get all sulky and moody because you misunderstood something he said when you were eavesdropping!"

"But I –"

"You don't ever doubt Alfred!" Bruce grew even louder. "You can hate me, pout and sulk, and stomp around here mad at me all you like, but you don't ever, ever doubt Alfred. Never!"

Before I could object, Bruce dragged me across the room to the lone chair in Alfred's tidy room. Bruce sat down and yanked me over his lap.

"I'll teach you to think badly about those who had done so much for you," Bruce snarled. I could feel him pull his arm back high to smack me, and I groaned in dread. "I'm going to spank the sullenness out of you if it's the last thing I do. You better shape up, Richard, or so help me, I'll –"

"Master Bruce," Alfred interrupted loudly.

I craned my head to look at Alfred, and I felt Bruce freeze.

"Put him down," Alfred ordered.

"What?" Bruce asked.

"It's three-thirty in the morning," Alfred's voice was hard and no-nonsense. "I was up to one, waiting to see if you needed any help. We are all tired and overwrought and need sleep. Put Master Greyson down and both of you leave my room and go to bed."

"But Alfred –" Bruce began, but Alfred stalked over to us.

"Let him up. I can't believe that you would interrupt my much-needed sleep to barge in here and upset the child more just to make a point. Between Mr. Wayne's work and Batman's night life, we barely have enough time for a decent night of sleep." Alfred grabbed my shoulders and pulled me up to stand straight.

I glanced nervously between the two of them. Alfred had never defied Bruce, not that I had seen. Could Alfred defy Bruce? Alfred kind of worked for Bruce, but Bruce kind of thought about him like I thought about Bruce.

"He needs to be set straight," Bruce pointed at me. "He needs a lesson to change his attitude."

"Then ground him."

"He's already grounded," Bruce growled. "I've taken away the TV, the video games, the computer – I've spanked him twice in the last week. What else can I do?"

"You can learn that you can't control everything," Alfred pushed Bruce out of the chair and began herding us to the door. "Batman was meant to be a symbol to inspire people, not a dictator of teenagers."

"I know I'm right," Bruce groused as we all trudged down the hallway. "He's out of control."

"You're both out of control," Alfred snapped. "It's not enough that I cook and clean and wash and drive and play doctor to your injuries and serve as control man to your missions – now I have to play counselor as well in the middle of the night."

He stopped by Bruce's room and pointed to the open doorway. "Take off that ridiculous suit and go to bed."

"But I need to run a test on the car and then–"

"Master Wayne!" Alfred was adamant.

"This isn't over," Bruce promised me with a stern look before he went into his room and shut the door.

"Thanks," I told Alfred.

"Don't start thanking me," Alfred frowned. "I agree with Master Bruce that you have been showing quite a bit of cheek and attitude lately. You may be a teenager, but that is no excuse to make everyone else miserable. So you think about how you can change yourself for the better. Now in bed right now. And for goodness's sake, take off that mask."

I removed the mask from my face and then Alfred pushed me towards my room. He kept after me until I changed into pajamas and then he stood by impatiently until I got into bed.

"He was mad that I had so much coffee," I offered in a small voice. "You both gave me a cup."

"Yes, well, that's hardly a good reason to go about driving him into a temper. Go to sleep," Alfred insisted. "And tomorrow morning, don't bother Master Bruce until at least ten o'clock."

He went to the door and turned off the light. He paused in the doorway and said, "And regardless of what anyone says, you aren't nearly half the trouble Master Bruce was at your age. Not even close."

"Really?" I peered over the top of my warm covers to look at him.

"At least you take your punishments stoically. He used to wail that he missed his parents every time I gave him a reproving look. The first time I grounded him, he yelled that his parents would never ground him and proceeded to break most of the china in the dining room. Such a handful. Good night, young sir."

"Good night, Alfred," I smiled as I snuggled down into my bed.

In the darkness, I fought off sleepiness long to gather my thoughts together. Alfred wasn't mad at me, and he had actually stopped Bruce from punishing me. That had to be a world record or something – someone stopping Bruce Wayne from doing anything that he set out to do. I didn't think I deserved to be spanked, but I didn't usually get a choice. I never expected Alfred to stop Bruce or do anything other than stand there and watch me suffer pain and humiliation.

I loved Alfred. I wasn't really sure about Bruce – he had his good points, I guess.

As I fell asleep, my last thought was that I had both Bruce and Alfred to care about me while the stupid Riddler was all alone in Arkham.

-------

I slept pretty late and rolled out of bed just to trip over my green and red clothes, shoes, and mask on the floor. I stumbled into the bathroom – I looked awful in the mirror with my face all pale and my hair sticking up. I took a shower just because I knew someone would tell me to take one, and then I got dressed and ran down to the kitchen. No one was there, so I grabbed the box of Pop Tarts. I ripped open one double pack and put them in the toaster, but I was too hungry to wait so I tore into another pack and ate them cold while I waited for the toaster to finish.

I was eating the hot Pop Tarts when Alfred came into the kitchen. Of course, I had left both wrappers on the counter so he gave me a stern look and threw the wrappers away.

"No more sugar," he told me.

"Where's Bruce?" I asked as I watched him pour out a glass of cold milk.

"He's working down in the cave," Alfred put the milk before me. "He wants you to get your homework. Then you need to go down and talk to him."

It felt weird to have him not mad at me. I had gotten used to someone being ticked off, and now it was like the last week had not happened.

I got some homework done, and then I went in search of Bruce.

When I got into the elevator, I could hear the rock music playing in the Batcave. It was loud, obnoxious, and heavy on the drums which made the cave vibrate slightly. I grinned. Bruce was welding. He always played rock music when he welded.

Sure enough, as I rounded the corner, I saw him bending over a table with a metal faceguard over his face and a huge blowtorch that roared blue fire and bright yellow sparks. He was wearing jeans and a long sleeved shirt and leather gloves, and he kept moving the blowtorch over pieces of metal on the table.

He paused and turned towards me. I swear sometimes that Bruce really does have superhearing – I can never sneak up on him, even with rock music blaring.

He turned off the blow torch and reached over to turn down the music. As the Batcave grew quiet, I braced myself for a lecture.

"Hey," he lifted the faceguard, "do you get enough sleep?"

I nodded, not knowing what to do with my arms as I stood there.

"Okay, mind handing me that sheet of metal over there?" he pointed to the work space at the back of the cave.

"Sure," I went to get it.

"There's a pair of gloves over there. Put them on and you can help," Bruce pulled down his mask and resumed welding.

I had no idea of what was going on. Bruce being nice and pretending like nothing had happened last night? It was weird, but I wasn't going to push my luck. I wondered if Alfred had talked with him before I got up, but again I wasn't brave enough to ask.

We worked with the metal for an hour, Bruce maneuvering the welder while I held the thick metal in different positions. I wanted to use the welder, but as I had no idea what he was making, I didn't ask. Sometimes Bruce starts out to make something and you have no idea what it is and you help him and suddenly you realize he's making new ribbing for the Batwings or four-edged Batarangs that can whip though glass and metal as they spin around.

This time I had no idea as he kept twisting and turning the metal.

"What is it?" I finally blurted out. "I still can't figure out."

He chuckled under the mask. "It's a surprise."

"Aw, Bruce," I sighed. "Can't you give me a hint?"

"Okay," he paused. "It's a way to let a bird fly on the ground."

Riddles – I hate them.

He laughed at my expression. "Tell you what. Go train for two hours and let me work. Then I'll tell you."

"Can I use the trapeze?"

"Only with the net. I don't want to hear a thud and look over there to see you flat on the ground."

"Fine," I ran down the stairs to the lower level of the Batcave and began pulling out the net. Above me, Bruce turned up the music and AC/DC blasted through the Batcave. I love it when Bruce plays rock music and doesn't get all worked up about the bad lyrics or stuff like that. A few songs even had swear words, but Bruce ignores them and keeps working.

As I started climbing up to the top of the trapeze, I thought about just how cool we were. Bruce Wayne and Dick Grayson – Batman and Robin. We were awesome, total badass cool. Villains hated us and everyone else wanted to be us.

As "All Night Long" pulsed through the cave, I ran off the long board and soared through the air before I caught the swinging bar. I swung down and then did two flips before grabbing the next bar. I like to swing through the air – it reminds me of my parents and how much I miss them, but at the same time I also know how much I like living with Bruce and being his sidekick. One day I'll be as good a crime-fighter as he is, but for now I'll just live in Batman's shadow and enjoy it.

I swung a dozen more times, even letting myself drop just for fun. The net caught me, but I saw Bruce turn his head my way to make sure I was okay.

"I'm fine," I called to him over the music. "Sometimes it's more fun to fall."

He turned back to his work without a word. I loved him this morning – totally not all controlling and lecturing and, well, Bruce-like. Why couldn't he be this cool all the time?

After my arms started to hurt from swinging, I did a hundred push-ups and a hundred sit-ups – not my favorite exercises, but ones that Bruce like me to do. Then I ran three miles on the treadmill, humming along to the rock music and going faster and faster until my legs ached.

Suddenly, the music stopped.

I turned off the treadmill to see Bruce walking towards me, with the metal faceguard and gloves off. I got off, wondering what he was going to say.

"Come on," he jerked his head towards the other side of the cave. "You can see it now."

I walked beside towards the back of the cave, wondering what he had made. Bruce's inventions are usually cool, but he's never been this mysterious about them before.

"It's not done," he cautioned. "Probably won't be done for a week, and Alfred's going to take my head off, but – well, you know."

He looked very careless of all rules right then, and I wondered if this was what Bruce was like as a teenager – reckless, fearless and a real badass.

"What do you think?" he pointed to a stand where his latest invention stood.

It was crude, twisted metal and two wheels, but it looked kind of like a –

"Motorcycle?" I guessed. "Are – are you building another Batpod?"

"It'll be a little like the Batpod," he nodded. "But it's more like a motorcycle."

"Kind of small for you – the Batpod is bigger," I noted.

"Yeah," he seemed to be smiling, amused at something I could not see. "It'll be painted black, but with touches of red and green."

"Huh?" I blinked.

He finally smiled. "What do you think? Is Robin ready for his own ride?"

"Me?" my eyes went wide.

"Yeah, it's for you. Something for you to ride alongside the Batmobile. Think you're ready to have your own motorcycle?"


	12. Dates

I stared at the pieces of medal, at the thing that would be a motorcycle for me.

"I'm getting a motorcycle!" I yelled. "A motorcycle - oh, Bruce."

I ran towards him and threw my arms around him in a hug. He looked surprised for a second, and then he smiled and tousled my hair.

"A motorcycle!" I kept yelling. "A real one, just for me. Oh, yay, yay!" I began dancing around the raw medal frame in total joy, so ecstatic that I would be getting a motorcycle.

Bruce didn't say anything - he just grinned at me.

"What's all this noise?" Alfred came down the stairs, concerned.

"I'm getting a motorcycle!" I shouted. "He's building me one with wheels and everything. My very own motorcycle - ha-ha!"

I did a cartwheel and then two back-handsprings, too excited to keep still.

"What did you do?" furious, Alfred turned on Bruce. "I said talk to him. I said listen to what he has to say. I did not tell you to build him a motorcycle."

"Oh, come on," Bruce looked a little shamefaced. "Look how happy he is."

"A motorcycle!" I jumped up and did a flip in mid-air.

"He's thirteen - he'll break his neck," Alfred crossed his arms, glaring at Bruce. I guess I should have felt bad that Alfred was upset, but I was too psyched to really care about anything else at the moment.

"I'm going to have it controlled from the Batmobile," Bruce protested. "I won't let him go too fast and if it gets dangerous, I have a kill switch to stop him."

"A motorcycle for a child! I've never seen such hyperactive, excitable, emotional, irresponsible, bipolar behavior -"

"Hey, Dick's not bipolar," Bruce objected.

"I wasn't talking about Dick," Alfred retorted.

"I'm not bipolar either," Bruce crossed his arms, mirroring Alfred's stance. "Yeah, I can get a little dark and brooding at times, but that's the way I operate. You were the one who told me I had to ease up on him."

"I meant don't yell at him so much and try to be a more loving father. I never suggested that you should build him a deathtrap."

"My own motorcycle," I cheered again. "Thank you, Bruce, thank you so much." I hugged him again, squeezing his tall body as hard as I could.

"You're welcome," Bruce put his hand on my shoulder. "See? He loves me now."

"I give up," Alfred put his hands up in the air. "No one listens to word I say anymore. You take Master Grayson out on that contraption all you like. You're responsible for his safety. But I warn you, when he breaks his arm or leg or neck, you and I are going to have a very serious talk." Alfred looked right at Bruce.

"Okay, calm down, Dick," Bruce told me as I started hopping up and down again. "I know you're excited, and that's great, but we're going to have rules about the motorcycle."

I wanted to get jumping around, but I forced myself to stand still and listen.

"One," Bruce held up a finger, "you never take this out without my permission. Two," another finger, "you have to use it responsibly. If I see you trying wheelies or jumping off rooftops –"

Alfred sucked in a tight, worried breath.

" - the bike gets put up," Bruce continued. "Two," a second finger, "your grades have to stay up. No more C's or D's. I want A's from you from here on out. I'll let high B's slide, but with any low B's, you're on probation, and if it ever dips into a C, the bike gets locked down here until the grade goes back up."

I nodded. "Yes, I'll study, I promise."

Bruce looked skeptically, but he held up a third finger. "Three, you've got to have a better attitude. I want you nice and polite. No more running off, throwing food at guests, mocking villains, doubting Alfred or me, complaining, whining, or backtalk."

That was a long list, but I kept nodding.

"It's going to take me a while to finish the bike," Bruce continued. "I'll work on it during the evenings after I get home from work and before we go patrolling. But I'm only working on it if I get a good report from Alfred that you came home from school, did your homework, and didn't give him any trouble."

Any other time, I would have gotten angry at him talking to me like I was a child, but I was so happy to be getting my very own motorcycle I think I would have agreed to anything he told me. Hell, if he had said I had to go kiss Selina Kyle, I would have agreed right then and there.

"Yeah, Bruce, whatever you want," I replied. "I'll be the best sidekick ever, I promise, and I'll be the best son, too."

A look came over Bruce's face, something that I had not seen before, and he seemed to be having trouble saying anything.

"There's no arguing after you told him that," Alfred sighed. "All right, young sir, let's go upstairs and take care of that homework and leave this delusional man to work on his new project which will leave you maimed or missing a leg."

Alfred kept talking about all the horrible things that would happen to me on the motorcycle, but I went along with him to the elevator. As we got in, I heard the rock music start again, loud and heavy, and I could not help grinning.

------

The next day was Monday, and I was very good at school. I paid attention in class, did not fight with Pamela, sat beside Barbara at lunch (she kept talking about costume ideas for the Halloween party and I nodded along), and was all ready to be picked up at 3:15 on the curb outside the school.

I stood there, looking down the street for the car, when Mr. Horton came out of the school, calling,

"Mr. Grayson – Mr. Grayson, you forgot your coat."

I looked back and groaned inside as I saw him waving that horrid blue coat I hate. I had left it at school when I ran out and got kidnapped by the Joker. I was sure I had lost it for good and planned on not ever telling Bruce, but my fink of English teacher found it somehow.

"It's not mine," I called back as he came down the steps.

"It has your name on it."

Dang that Alfred, always sewing _R. Grayson_ into the labels of my stuff. I wasn't a five-year-old who loses his stuff accidentally – I had lost that coat on purpose.

"I don't want it," I said as Mr. Horton offered it to me.

"What? Nonsense, it's your coat and a very nice one at that. Take it."

I wanted to refuse, but I saw our Roles-Royce coming up, and I knew I had to take the coat.

"Thank you," I muttered.

When I got into the car, I was surprised to see Bruce driving and not Alfred.

"Can we go home and get to work?" I asked eagerly. "I can start my homework in the car."

"No, we're going to the dentist," Bruce replied.

I sighed, but I clicked my seatbelt shut.

"You found your coat," Bruce commented as he pulled back into traffic.

"Yeah, Mr. Horton made me take it home. You know, Barbara says I look really dumb in this coat. I don't want to wear it anymore . . ." I trailed off, hoping he wouldn't think I was having a bad attitude.

"It's an expensive coat," Bruce insisted. "Come on, Dick, you don't care that much about what other people think, right?"

I looked up at him, and then he sighed.

"You're not supposed to cave to peer pressure," he said, though he did not sound convinced.

"Really? Just like that?"

"Yeah, it's not easy," Bruce admitted as he kept driving. "But the coat's not that bad. You should have seen some of the stuff that Alfred dressed me in when I was little."

Bruce looked so disgruntled I snickered.

"Like suits and stuff?"

"No, like English schoolboy uniforms and those short gray shorts that barely reach your knees and a little cap, too. I was in fifth grade and I refused."

"Yeah?" I asked, hoping he would keep talking. I loved hearing about Bruce as a kid, probably because it was hard to imagine him as ever being real small.

"Oh, yeah, when he told me I had to wear it the next morning to school, I refused. And then he said I was grounded until I learned to respect him. It was so unfair – I went into the dining room and broke a dish I was so mad."

"He told me about that," I realized. "But he didn't say it was because he picked out dumb clothes for you."

"Well, they were dumb, but that blue coat is perfectly fine," Bruce insisted.

I glanced over the awful thing on my lap. "If I wear it two more times, will that be enough?"

"Fine," he frowned, "but no begging for new clothes."

"When do I ever beg for new clothes?"

You're right – all you want are electronics and a motorcycle."

"And a better Robin suit," I added.

"That's coming, too," Bruce promised.

We made it to the dentist, and we went up to the office, this snazzy place on the twentieth floor with a big waiting room and a huge aquarium that had tons of colorful fish. When I was little, I used to like to stand in front of the aquarium and tap on the glass to scare the fish until Bruce would demand that I come sit beside him and read _Highlights_.

When I was a kid, whenever he would take me to the doctor's or dentist's office, he would find that stupid _Highlights_ magazine and flip to the page where you have to find objects in the black and white drawing. We would try to see who could find the objects first, and I usually found most of them though I know he was letting me win. That was fine when I was little, but I wasn't going to be caught reading _Highlights_ now.

I reach for an edition of _Sports Illustrated_ that had a woman in a red bikini on the front.

"Not going to happen," Bruce took the magazine out of my hand. "Find something more appropriate."

"Didn't you date a model from _Sport Illustrated_ once?"

"Yeah, but I was old enough to. You can read this magazine when you're twenty."

That wasn't fair, but before I could protest, they called us back to the rooms.

Okay, let me say once and forever, the dentist office? Not fun. Really scary, a lot of torture instruments, and creepy sounds. I had to get a cavity filled when I was nine, and they gave me a shot in my mouth and it hurt and I cried and Bruce had to come over and hold my hand, which was just embarrassing. When my mouth got numb, I tried to pull away from him, but he wouldn't let go and kept saying things like "It's okay, buddy, I'm not going anywhere. You're a brave boy, you know that."

Man, Bruce is either stone-cold or so mushy I can't stand him.

But this time I was going to be cool about everything so I got into the dentist chair and looked very casual as they lowered me back and put that stupid paper bib around my neck. The dentist was in Bruce's room across the hall, and I snickered at the thought of Bruce having to wear the bib, too.

The cleaning went pretty quickly though I got tired of keeping my mouth open wide and having the salt stuff sprayed all over my face. They made me swish with the nasty fluoride at the end, but then I got to put the sucky thing in my mouth and have it suck the gross stuff up. I was running the suction tip over my tongue when Bruce walked in.

"Are you done?" I asked around the plastic nozzle.

"Yeah, no cavities," he smiled, showing me his white teeth. "What about you?"

"Well," the dentist came in, looking all serious, "he has two cavities."

Bruce glared down at me.

I thought about shaking my head in denial, but I'm not really sure what cavities are, so I kept sucking out my mouth and stayed quiet.

"Are you brushing?" Bruce demanded.

"Most days," I mumbled.

"Every morning and night," Bruce snapped. "That's the rule, and flossing every night."

"He's going to need braces soon," the dentist added.

"No, no braces," Bruce said. "Straighten his teeth with a retainer."

"That will take longer."

"Fine, but no braces."

I wanted to hug Bruce – I would hate having dumb braces.

"But you can fill the cavities today," Bruce added.

"Just a second," the dentist promised. "Ashley, can you numb him up?"

The hygienist nodded and then the needle came out as she set the tray on the swinging arm attached to my chair. Bruce looked concern and stepped towards me as Ashley went to the cabinets to get more supplies.

"Hold my hand and die," I hissed at Bruce.

His lips twitched into a smile, and he went to sit the seat in the corner.

The shot hurt in my mouth, and she had to do it on both sides because I had cavities on both sides, or so she said. My eyes watered when the needle went in each time, but I glared at Bruce across the room, warning him not to move an inch from his chair. He took the hint and pretended to study the painting on the wall. The painting was of a clown with balloons which I thought was bad to have in Gotham City with the Joker and his clowns running around, but maybe some kids like to look at it.

"Are you all right?" Bruce asked when the hygienist left me for a while so I could get good and numb.

"I'm fine. You don't have to stay back here."

Bruce did not move from his chair. I thought about the motorcycle frame in the Batcave and then I added, "Thanks for the no braces. I hate them."

"Too dangerous," Bruce said, keeping his voice low. "If you got hit in the mouth, metal braces would tear your lips up. You can take a retainer out when you're on patrol."

I nodded.

An hour later, we were back in the car and I had two fillings and could not feel any of my numb mouth. It's kind of a creepy feeling, reaching up to touch your own lips and not being able to feel your fingers with your mouth. I thought about being stoic about it, but then I decided to milk my pain for all it was worth.

I sniffed.

Bruce glanced at me, concerned. "What's wrong?"

"I hate feeling numb," I mumbled, my voice all garbled because I couldn't move my mouth much.

"It'll wear off in a few hours."

"It makes me feel all dizzy," I leaned back against the headrest. "Can I come down to the Cave to watch you work? I could do my homework down there."

"Sure, that would be fine," Bruce nodded.

I probably could have pushed back homework until late that night, but I didn't want to test my luck.

------

It took Bruce two weeks to finish the motorcycle, and those had to be the longest two weeks of my life. I have never been so angelical good as I was then, and I actually did pull my grades up some.

I loved watched the bike taking shape, and once Bruce added wheels, I got to sit on it and hold the handle bars. He was fitting the bike to my body, allowing a little room in case I grew a lot in the next few years.

"But," he shrugged as he fit the leather grips on the handles, "once you turn sixteen, I'm going to design you a car to drive."

I nearly knocked all the equipment off the table in my excitement.

By the Thursday before Halloween, Bruce put the finishing touches on the motorcycle, and we just had to wait for it to dry.

"Can I ride it tomorrow?" I asked as I helped him clean up the paint and tools.

He hesitated. "Uh, not tomorrow."

"It wouldn't be dry by then?"

"No, I'm going out to dinner tomorrow."

I straightened to look at him. "With me?"

"No, with a – a girl."

"Like a date?"

"Yeah, a date," Bruce seemed in a big hurry to put away all the stuff.

"Vicki Vale?" I asked, remembering the pretty blond that Bruce sometimes saw.

"No, um – Selina Kyle."

"What?" I yelled. "That slut?"

"Richard!"

"After what she said to me, you're going to see her again?" I protested.

"Selina's not good with children," Bruce began.

"I'm not a child – I'm a teenager," I interrupted.

"Then she's not good with teenagers."

"She's only good at one thing," I said snidely.

"Richard Grayson, do you want me to put this bike up permanently?"

"No, but I don't like her. She's mean and spiteful and hates me."

"That's why we're going out," Bruce sighed. "It's just for dinner and you can hang out here with Alfred and get pizza and a movie or something. And then Saturday, I'll teach you to drive the bike, okay?"

I couldn't argue with him because I knew he would put the bike up and I wanted to learn to ride it, so I did not say anything. But it was not fair for Bruce to get to go out and leave me at home. I only get to see him in the evenings and at night he's Batman, and I wanted to spend Friday night with him watching a movie.

Or if he went out and Alfred also went out, that would be fine because I would get to stay by myself. It would be super cool then because I could eat all the ice cream I wanted and watch PG-13 movies without having Bruce fast-forward through the bad parts and I could roller-skate inside because Alfred would not be there to tell me that it would scratch the wooden floors. But they both thought I wasn't old enough to stay by myself at the Manor, though I knew Barbara Gordon stayed by herself when the Commissioner went to work.

So I decided to make my own plans for Friday night.

When I got home from school the next day, I didn't say anything. Bruce got home by six and said hey and went upstairs to change into some nice suit.

Around seven-thirty, I was in the living room, finally getting to watch TV after weeks of being grounded, but I turned down the volume so I could hear him talking to Alfred.

"All right, we'll be at the Chamberlé," Bruce said. "I have my cellphone and my suit in case there's trouble. I should be back around midnight. In case I'm later than that, make Dick go to bed at eleven."

"Of course, sir."

I rolled my eyes. So Bruce wanted to have sex with Selina tonight – big surprise there. It wasn't the first time I had to go to bed before Bruce got home from a date, and a lot of times he wasn't there in the morning and Alfred said he had gone into the office before I woke up. Yeah right – I knew Bruce spent the night at whoever-he-was-dating's house. I don't know why he and Alfred want to keep it a big secret – Bruce has to pretend to be a playboy so people don't get suspicious that he's Batman, but he's not fooling anyone here at Wayne Manor.

I watched him drive off in the Ferrari and then I turned up the TV and put my written note down in the den, where Alfred would see it when he came to look for me later. Then I crept upstairs to get my stuff. I had a glass piggy bank that Bruce made me put some of my allowance to "save for the future." Screw the future – I'll make more money then.

I broke the piggy bank and grabbed a few of the five dollar bills and some coins to stick in my pocket. It was pretty cold out there, and I looked for a coat. Just my luck, none of my coats were upstairs in my room save for the – you guessed it – stupid blue coat. Snarling, I pulled it on and buttoned the awful brass buttons. I could not risk getting my coat out of the downstairs coat closet for fear that Alfred would hear me.

I wanted to ride my new motorcycle into Gotham. I wanted to ride it so bad, but I knew Alfred would hear if I went down to the Cave and once Bruce learned that I rode the bike without permission and before really knowing how to, he would give me the spanking of my life and melt the bike into a solid cube of medal.

So I decided to take the bus.

I snuck out the side door of the Manor and ducked against the bushes as I ran towards the gate. It was closed, but I knew the combination to the small barred door on the side. I closed it behind me softly and then started walking down the dark road. It was about half a mile to the bus-stop, and once I got there, I hid behind a tree, afraid Alfred would be coming after me.

The note I had left was kind of brief: _Went out. Be back by eleven. Dick_. Yeah, I was going to get in trouble once I got back, but no one ever said I _couldn't_ go out by myself on Friday night, so that was my story and I'm sticking to it.

The bus took forever to get there, but once it came, I walked up the three steps, dropped three quarters in the box, and went to the back to sit down. I figured that if I looked like I knew what I was doing no one would bother me, and sure enough, the few people on the bus ignored me as we rode into Gotham City.

It was eight o'clock by the time I got off at the ninth stop and headed up the street towards the Gordons' home. It was really dark, but the street lights were out. The Commissioner's car was gone, and I hurried up the steps to ring the doorbell.

I could hear the TV on, but as soon as the doorbell rang, the TV went quiet. I bet the Commissioner told Barbara not to open the door when he was gone and to be quiet if anyone came. Not bad advice in Gotham City.

"Hey, Barbara, it's me, Dick," I called out.

The door opened, and Barbara looked out. "Hey, Dick," she smiled before glancing behind me. "Where's Bruce?"

"He went on a date," I rolled my eyes. "I came to see if you wanted to come out with me."

Her eyes widened and she looked very pretty. "Just you and me?"

"Yeah, I was thinking we could go to the Chamberlé for dinner."

"Gosh, that's a nice place. Yeah, I can go. Let me change into a dress. I guess they'll let you in that coat."

I hadn't thought about the restaurant having a dress code; I was glad I had put on the dumb blue coat.

She held the door open for me. "Where's Alfred? Isn't he driving us?"

"No, I came by myself," I tried to look very cool and casual as I stood in their living room. "On the bus."

"Gosh," Barbara shook her head, "Bruce is going to tear you apart."

"No, he isn't," I felt annoyed. "If he gets to go out and date dumb women, I think I should get to, too."

"Smooth, Grayson," Barbara retorted.

"Oh, come on, you're not dumb," I assured her. "You're the smartest girl I know. Heck, next to Bruce, you're the smartest person I know."

"Okay, I'll let the 'dumb' comment slide. But this is a date?"

"I guess," I shrugged, my cheeks slightly pink. "Do you want it to be?"

"You're such an idiot, Dick," she declared. "Stay here while I go change."

It took her a long time to change, but when she came out, she was wearing a dark blue dress and all her red hair was pulled back with a clip and her eyes were darker and her lips were all shiny. She carried a small black purse with her.

"I'm ready. The restaurant is just five blocks away. We could walk."

"Sure."

"Let me leave a note for Dad. Of course, I'll be back long before he comes in. And I have my cell phone in my purse if he gets worried."

"Cool," I nodded. It was a good thing I was all concentrated on sticking it to Bruce or I might have been really nervous at the thought of going on my first date.

"I'm ready," Barbara pulled her keys out of her pocket. "Ready, Mr. Grayson?"

"Uh, sure, Miss Gordon," I swallowed as she stepped forward.

We went out of the house and started walking to the restaurant. After one block, Barbara moved close to me and slipped her hand into mine. I didn't know what to do so I held her hand and kept walking, wondering what exactly I had gotten myself into.


	13. Dinner Crashing

I'm sure glad Barbara was with me that evening. She's pretty cool, you know, and she's kind of pretty, too, but I would have been lost without her. She knew about the dress code things, which was good because everyone was dressed up at the snooty restaurant. I almost lost nerve when we walked in and the lights were low and soft music was playing in the background and the host guy was wearing a tuxedo.

I know, I know, I live with a billionaire – shouldn't I be used to nice places by now? Well, maybe, but we don't go that many places. Or rather Bruce doesn't take me with him. Most of the time he goes out late at night, and he's all dressed up so I'm glad I don't have to go and wear dumb clothes.

We wear nice stuff and go to church every now and then, but even then I think we look way too dressed up for church. Bruce says I need some spiritual instruction in my life, but the last time we were at church the minister was preaching about children obey your parents, and Bruce looked all smug, and I scowled the whole way through the service and got lectured on the way home.

But this restaurant was way nicer than Gotham First Church, and I balked when the host guy came up to us.

"Yes?" he said in a very snobby way. "May I help you?"

He looked down his long nose at us, and I stepped back, ready to forget the whole thing.

"I'm Miss Barbara Gordon," Barbara said in a clear voice. "I'm the daughter of Commissioner Gordon. And my date here, Mister Richard Grayson, is the ward of –"

"Ah, Mr. Wayne," the host guy suddenly didn't seem as snobby. "Yes, he and Miss Kyle are already seated. Are they expecting you?"

"No," I shook my head, "but we don't have to see them. We'll take a table somewhere else."

"You wish to make a reservation for yourself?" his eyebrows rose as he looked down at us.

"Yes," I replied, trying to still be polite, "we want to eat here."

He paused, and his eyes darted to the side. I hate when people look all sneaky.

"I think you better come to Mr. Wayne's table. He will probably like know you are here. Then maybe we can find a table for the two of you."

He started into the restaurant, and we followed.

Barbara gave a small gasp as we stepped out of the foyer and into the main restaurant. "Dick, it's beautiful," she whispered. She looked up at the ceiling, two stories above, and the light of the hanging chandeliers shone in her eyes.

The place was fancy with expensive stuff and marble pillars and an orchestra playing on one side, but I was looking straight ahead. In the middle of the restaurant, at square table with loads of plates and silverware and wine glasses, Bruce was sitting. Selina sat on the edge next to him rather than across the table, and she had her hand in his arm as they were laughing about something. Bruce leaned down to whisper something in her ear as he reached his other hand out to place on top of hers, and then he saw us.

Well, truthfully, I guess he saw me, but the reaction was same.

In a split second, his face changed from amusement to rage. There wasn't even time for surprise or confusion or mild annoyance – no, it went from Bruce laughing to Bruce furious.

"Excuse me, sir," the host began, but Bruce interrupted.

"What are _you_ doing here?" he asked, looking straight at me.

My mouth went dry. I was going to be all brave and swagger in and give him a "who cares about you?" look, but I completely lost my nerve. I haven't been this scared of him since I was nine and broke his computer by spilling chocolate milk on it. That time I had hidden under my bed until he came up and found me and I was crying and he sat beside me on the bed and said it was okay, but I couldn't touch his things anymore. Comparing the two, this made that look like nothing.

"I – I – I –" I stammered.

"Dick asked me out for dinner," Barbara said. She must be the bravest person alive because she stepped beside me and wrapped her arm around mine, like we were an item or something. "We wanted to say hi before we start."

Man, she was cool, like we were real adults. I made myself nod along, doing my best to match her casual expression. Selina sat straight in her seat and glared daggers at both of us. I would have felt smug at her irritation, but I was a little worried about angering the strongest man in Gotham to feel too satisfied.

"Where's Alfred?" Bruce asked me.

"Home," I said in a small voice.

If it were possible, he looked even more furious. His eyes seemed almost black.

"Where is your father?" Bruce demanded to Barbara in a tight voice.

"At work. Where else?" Barbara replied, slightly less cool.

"Thank you," Bruce turned to the host who looked nervous and slightly sick, "please pull up two chairs for the children."

"We were going to get our own table," Barbara said, but not too loudly.

"Sit down," Bruce ordered as he reached into his coat and took out his cell phone.

We dropped down into the seats that the host brought, and then he hurried away.

"Bruce," Selina protested, but he was already on the phone.

"Yeah, Alfred, it's me," Bruce said into the phone. "He's here with me . . . yeah, I don't know what's going on, but I'm going to find out . . . I will . . . Oh, believe me, I will," he looked straight at me, and I felt my stomach turn right over and try to jump up my throat.

Bruce hung up the phone and took a deep breath.

I could see his chest rising, and he seemed to be swelling with fury, and I felt paralyzed.

"This is such a nice place," Barbara commented looking around. "So pretty – do you come here often?"

"Barbara," Bruce looked very stern, "I need to know –"

"What about you, Miss Kyle?" Barbara turned to Selina. "Do you have men bring you here a lot?"

"What?" Selina nearly screeched. "How dare you?"

"Sorry," Barbara apologized. "You look really pretty, and I thought you must get a lot of dates."

"Oh," Selina stopped, looking torn between being mad and accepting the compliment. "I guess."

"I like your hair," Barbara went on. "I tried putting mine up and having it curve down like that, but I couldn't get it right. You should be on the cover of a magazine. You look like a movie star beside Mr. Wayne."

Selina smiled, showing her white teeth. "You're such a sweet girl. How did you get mixed up with this dreadful boy?" She glared at me.

"Sometimes you just need a date for Friday night," Barbara sighed. She pushed her chair back. "I need to go to the ladies room to put on more lip gloss. Will you come with me like they do in the movies?"

"Certainly," Selina swung out of her chair and grabbed her clutch purse.

Bruce stood and I did the same, remembering it was polite to stand when a lady left the room.

"While we're there," Selina said as she walked with Barbara, "let's see what we can do with that hair."

"It's a mess," Barbara confided as they walked off.

We sat back down, and I watched them go and then turned slowly to face Bruce.

"You are dead!" he hissed at me. "When I get you home – dead! You snuck out of the house and came by yourself all the way to Gotham just to ruin my night."

"No, I came to take out Barbara," I protested, finally finding my voice.

"You're thirteen – you don't take anyone out," he retorted. "You are in so much –" unable to finish, he started making gestures with his hands. He pulled his fingers across his throat and then brought his hand down in the air two times fast before jabbing his finger towards me. I guessed that meant I was either getting my throat slit when we got home or I was getting the spanking off my life.

"Bad, bad, bad," Bruce kept jabbing his finger at me. "When I get you alone – oh, you can't even begin to imagine it. How dare you come here?"

"Fine, I'll leave," I half-rose from my chair.

"Sit. Down," Bruce ordered between clenched teeth. "You move an inch from this table, and we're both taking a trip to the men's room together."

I guess we weren't going to be putting on makeup and doing each other's hair if we went there, but I wasn't brave enough to say that.  
"Okay, one question," Bruce took a breath, "and you better answer this right, or I swear you're getting caned when we get home."

I felt the blood drain from my face.

"Did you take out the bike?" he asked.

"No," I shook my head, "I didn't touch the motorcycle."

"Then how did you get here?"

"I rode the bus."

"You rode the bus! You rode the bus all the way from our house?"

"Well, how else was I going to get here?"

"How else were –" Bruce broke off again and went back into doing the hand gestures. I wonder if he ever thought about becoming a mime.

"You get to go out," I objected. "Why can't I?"

"Because I'm an adult," Bruce hissed. "I go to work, I make money, I make the decisions. You're thirteen, and you do not sneak out of the house without telling anyone, ride the bus all the way into Gotham, and ruin my evening."

"Your evening – it's all about you, always."

"It is not. If I want a break occasionally, I'm entitled to one!"

"You want to take a break?" I sneered. "When do I get a break?"

"You're a kid – your whole life is a break."

"No, it isn't," I argued. "I have to do what you tell me all the time. Go to school, do your homework, take a shower, don't watch TV. I want to be treated like an adult."

"But you're not an adult. You don't think like an adult and you certainly don't act like one."

"I could," I claimed.

"Oh, really?" Bruce raised his eyebrows. "How were you going to pay for dinner?"

"I brought money," I announced. "My own money, too."

"How much?"

"Fifteen dollars," I told him.

"Ha!" he snorted. "That won't even buy an appetizer here."

Man, that wasn't fair. Bruce and his snobby restaurants! "We'll go somewhere else," I decided. "Some place cheaper."

"And you'll spend your money on dinner for you and Barbara?" Bruce asked.

"Yes," I held my head up.

"All of it?"

"Yes."

"And how will you get home then?"

I froze, struck by his question.

"See?" Bruce said in a low voice. "That's why I'm the adult and you're the one who's in big trouble."

I wanted to argue more, but the girls came back from the bathroom and we had to stand again.

Barbara had her hair all twisted up, but I liked it better down. She gave me cautious look, but I gave the smallest of nods.

Selina reached the table and leaned over to kiss Bruce right on the mouth. She kissed him for three whole seconds, and I made a face.

When Selina sat down, Bruce stood for a moment, his eyes dazed.

"See?" Barbara whispered with a smile to Selina. "Told you he would like it."

Selina looked very proud of herself, and when Bruce sat down, he kept his hand on the curve of her neck for just a second, and his fingers brushed her hair for a second.

"So Barbara had a wonderful idea," Selina said brightly. "She thought that since they intruded on our evening tonight, we all should go to the Gotham Ball in two weeks."

"Oh, really?" Bruce smiled, amused. "All of us?"

"Yes, we could all dress up and make an evening of it. We'll meet everyone and dance the waltz and –"

"I don't want to dance," I protested.

"Oh, you're dancing," Bruce assured me.

"Wouldn't he look just adorable in knickerbockers and knee highs?" Selina simpered. "With a sailor's collar like little boys wore in the 1800's, with lace all around the edges?"

I wanted to strangle her. I looked at Barbara, but she had her napkin up to her mouth, laughing behind it.

"Not a bad idea," Bruce admitted.

"Then it's official?" Selina looked at him.

"Yes, you're my date for the Black and White Ball," Bruce told her. "And Barbara can ask her father if she can ride with us to the Ball."

That seemed to ease some of the tension out of the room, though I don't know why. I guess Barbara figured this would help, but it seems stupid that a dumb ball could make grown-ups happy.

"Is everyone situated?" another guy in a tux came up, ready to take our order.

I hesitated, wondering how I was going to pay for the food. The menus didn't have any prices on them, and I couldn't guess what stuff cost here. I knew I was going to look like an idiot again, and I felt my eyes sting, but I would make the best of it. I wouldn't eat anything and that way Barbara could get something and –

"Well, since this is a special evening, dinner's on me," Bruce smiled at Barbara and me with ease. "Get anything you like. Selina?"

"I'll have the risotto to start with," she decided, glancing over the menu.

As she ordered the rest of the entrée, I looked down at the menu and found that most everything was part French and even the words that looked English I didn't understand.

Selina finished, and Barbara figured out what she wanted, and fortunately Bruce ordered before I did.

"And for the young sir?" the maitre'd turned to me.

"I'll have what my father is having," I said, handing him the menu like everyone else did when they were finished.

Bruce's face relaxed even more, and for a moment, his eyes were warm as he looked at me. I guess Bruce likes it when I talk about him like he's my father. I'd have to remember that for later.

"Barbara, don't you think you should call your dad?" Bruce prompted.

"He won't be back until eleven," she said.

"He leaves you alone at night?" Bruce questioned.

"Well, he calls every so often," she explained. "And if anything happens, we have a panic room in our house where I can hide. But our house is unlisted, and most people don't know where it is unless they're our friends."

"See, I told you I'm old enough to stay at home by myself," I told Bruce.

"Drink your water," he told me.

The first course came and it was weird food, but I ate what was put in front of me, knowing better than to object at the food. Tonight was not the night to start pushing limits or complaining.

Considering how awful the dinner started, the rest of it wasn't that bad. Barbara was good company, and Selina seemed to like her, and they did most of the talking. Bruce eased up a little, too. I mean, he never really relaxes the whole way because he's Batman and he always has to be on guard, but still, he was trying.

When it was finally time to go, Bruce insisted on driving everyone home in his car. Fortunately, he was driving the Bentley that has four doors, and I got into the back with Barbara while Selina sat up front with Bruce.

When we got to Selina's place, Bruce got out and walked around to open her door and he walked her up to her door. I sighed and leaned back against the headrest.

"You hate her that much?" Barbara asked, surprised.

"No, it's just – Bruce remembers everything. When to stand and open doors and what to say and all that."

"He's a grown-up," Barbara shrugged. "They're supposed to remember all that. That's why they can't have any fun. They have to remember to do all that manner stuff and go to work and pay bills and drive right and take care of kids. No wonder they don't have fun."

"Bruce said tonight was supposed to be his break," I admitted. "I think I'm in a lot of trouble."

"Oh, you're in deep trouble, Grayson," Barbara grinned. "Loads of trouble. And once Bruce tells my dad what I did, I'm in trouble, too."

"Really?"

"Come on – you knew we were going to get into trouble. I knew it the minute you showed up on my doorstep. But that's what we do. We're teenagers and we get in trouble and our fathers yell and shout and threaten and we get grounded and feel awful. All part of life. Someday, we'll have kids and they'll do the same to us. At least, that's what Dad's always saying when I do bad stuff – 'Someday you'll have kids, and then you'll know how it feels.' Doesn't help now, Dad."

"He's worried about you, after what happened to your mom," I pointed out.

"You think Bruce isn't worried about you after what happened to your parents?" she looked right at me.

I hadn't thought of that, but it made sense. I felt bad that I kept worrying Bruce, but I couldn't seem to be able to stop myself when I wanted to do something and he told me no.

The car door opened, and Bruce got in.

We drove in silence to Barbara's house, but when Bruce pulled into front of it, I said to her, "I'll walk you to the door."

I saw Bruce nod at me in the mirror, and I got out and went around the car to open her door. She walked beside to the front door of her house, and I shifted awkwardly, wondering what I should do.

"Man, Grayson," she shook her head as she got out her key, "you can't hide anything. Why are you such a pansy?"

"Shut up," I told her.

"There's my boy," she grinned. Then quick and sudden, she leaned towards me and grabbed the back of my neck. I thought for a minute she was going to smash her forehead into my face and maybe break my nose (come on, it is Barbara), but she didn't. Instead she pressed her lips against mine.

I closed my eyes, and I felt the softness of her lips, and I tasted raspberries from her lip gloss, and I smelled her soft hair. It was too much – my stomach was turning over and over, and my legs felt weak, and my body was all tingly and achy.

Then she pulled back, smirked, and went inside, shutting the door.

I stood there for a moment, trying to remember how to breathe. I had never felt like that before, and I loved the feeling, but at the same time, the intensity of it scared me.

Somehow, I stumbled back to the car and got in the front seat.

Bruce was quiet for a moment as we sat there. Finally, he asked, "Was that your first kiss?"

"Yeah," I admitted, my face flaming red.

"Well, how was it?"

"I feel weird. I don't know. Good, but really weird."

"That's how it is," he nodded.

I didn't look at him, afraid he was going to start the sex talk again, which now might be important because I had finally kissed a girl.

"I'm glad it was special," Bruce started the car. He pulled into the dark street.

"Me too," I leaned back, trying to deal with all my feelings.

Wham! Something hit the side of my left thigh hard.

I jerked, shocked, but Bruce raised his hand again and walloped me on the side of my leg again.

"Bruce!" I protested, trying to pull myself against the door, away from his rock-hard hand.

"You are going to be the sorriest first-kissed boy I've ever known," Bruce promised as he kept swatting whatever he could reach as he drove with one hand. "You snuck out, went into the city by yourself, pulled Barbara into your shenanigans –"

Really, who uses the word _shenanigans_? I guess the same guy who tries to spank someone while driving.

"– worried Alfred, disrupted my date, and have been a spoiled brat all evening."

"I wasn't a brat," I kept trying to maneuver out of the line of fire.

He hit the top of my thigh one last time. "There, that will have to do you until we get home. I swear, I've never met anyone so – naughty!" He pointed his finger at me.

"What?" I felt outraged at the word.

"Naughty," he repeated. "That's what you are. Naughty, naughty, naughty. You keep getting into so much trouble because you're a naughty child."

"I'm not naughty." I was furious. "I'm rebellious. I'm bad, I'm defiant, I'm a punk."

"You're naughty," Bruce decided, looking very satisfied at finally figuring me out. "You keep acting out to get my attention. Well, you have it now. You want to act like a naughty boy? Fine, you're going to be treated like one."

"I know I'm getting spanked when we get home," I retorted, showing him I wasn't afraid of what was coming to me.

"Oh, more that," Bruce promised. "Tomorrow night we're going out to patrol, but all day tomorrow you aren't leaving my sight. I'm going treat you like you're seven years old, and we'll see how you like it."

"Seven?" I sneered. "What does that mean?"

"You're going to eat a seven-year-old's breakfast and then read to me like a seven-year-old and then play your toys while I work on the computer and have a rest time in the afternoon, and we'll see if that doesn't change your behavior."

"You wouldn't!"

"I'll make you hold my hand to cross the street," Bruce threatened.

"That's not fair," I yelled.

"At the end of day, if you want to act your age and go on patrol with me, I'll let you," Bruce told me. "But anymore of this naughtiness, and you're going back to being seven."

It was too horrific for words. He could not be serious. Oh, man, why couldn't I have Commissioner Gordon for a father? A cool father who left for the evening and let me do what I wanted? Instead, I was stuck with the world's most controlling man who thought up the worst punishments imaginable. And being seven was so stupid – no one wanted to be a seven-year-old, except maybe a six-year-old who wasn't old enough to know that both ages were lame.

We made it back to the house and the front lights were shining. It was not quite eleven, and I guess Alfred was up waiting for us.

I was still fuming inside, but when we got out of the car, I went to walk beside Bruce, close enough that he could grab the back of my neck or my ear, just to show him I was cooperating. He put a hand on my shoulder, but he didn't hold on too tight as we went up the stairs.

The door swung open when we reached it, and Alfred stood there, his face calm but furious.

Okay, honestly, up to this point, I was kind of hoping that Alfred might be on my side like last time and make us all go to bed without letting Bruce punish me. I took one look at Alfred's face, and I knew that wasn't happening.

"He's not hurt?" Alfred asked.

"No, he's fine," Bruce said.

"The motorcycle is still downstairs, sir," Alfred said as he locked the door.

"Good," Bruce did not stop moving. He herded me up the stairs, down the hall, all the way to my bedroom. Worst of all, Alfred followed us and came into my bedroom, too.

"Take off that ridiculous coat," Bruce ordered.

I had forgotten I was still wearing the blue coat, but I undid the buttons with shaky hands and slipped it off. Alfred came forward to take the coat and hang it over a chair.

"Pants down and lean over the edge of the bed," Bruce pointed to the bed.

I blinked. Usually, I got to keep my clothes on and I was over his lap. I wouldn't mind leaning over the bed (it was always humiliating to go over his lap), but I didn't want to lose any clothing either.

"You – you said I was getting punished tomorrow," I protested weakly.

"You are, and before you start complaining about getting punished for the same thing twice, I'll divide it up for you. You snuck out without permission," he held up one finger, "went by yourself to Gotham," another finger, "got Barbara involved in this mess –"

"What?" Alfred exclaimed.

"She's fine and I took her home," Bruce assured him before returning to me. "Barbara," a third finger, "and crashed my dinner with Selina," a fourth finger. "Four things, Dick, and I'm not amused at any of them."

"I don't think dinner with Selina should count," I objected. "She wasn't too mad, and we're all going to that stupid ball so I think that should cross the dinner out."

Bruce considered and then nodded. He lowered his smallest finger, leaving three fingers still up. "Okay, only three then, and I better not hear a word of protest about the ball or dancing lessons."

"What!"

"Dancing lessons are part of the deal," Bruce declared. "So we got three things to face now. You're getting spanked tonight – that's one. Tomorrow will be the second. As for the third . . ." He trailed off, and I stared in dismay at that one remaining finger. What awful punishment would he think up?

"I'm not sure yet," he admitted. "But I think it will involve chores of some kind. Hours and hours, maybe days, of chores."

I groaned inside. I hate chores, especially with Alfred picking over every last thing I did wrong.

"Very good," Alfred nodded his approval.

"Over the bed," Bruce commanded.

I unbuttoned my pants and let them slip down. I was wearing briefs instead of boxers, and the briefs were light gray and not white, but it was still embarrassing. I bent over the end of the bed. It was too tall for me to put my knees on the floor, but not tall enough for me to stand with my legs straight and my chest on the bed. I half-bent my knees so my upper body was on the bed and my toes still touched the floor.

Bruce didn't say a word; he pulled his hand back and swatted my rear.

Ow.

He did it again, this time with more force.

Really ow.

And he did it again.

Really, really ow. But I didn't make a sound. I was going to man this one out – I could take it and not yell or whine or bawl.

There was a pause, and I looked back to see Alfred handing Bruce a wooden-back hairbrush.

Traitor! Ugly, British, snobby, despicable traitor! Don't give Bruce any ideas when he's bound and determined to punish me, and certainly don't hand him any weapons.

I closed my eyes and dug my fingers in the soft comforter of my bed. I could do it – I could take this.

Then the thought suddenly crossed my mind that I wasn't just getting spanked by my father like a normal kid – I was about to be spanked by the man who is Batman, the man who can beat criminals to a pulp with a few well-aimed punches. The man who can handle any kind of weapon to bring down a foe. The man who bench-presses three hundred pounds everyday so his arms are huge and like iron.

And now that man was standing behind me with a hairbrush in his hand, ready to take out his frustration on my poor backside which was only covered with the thin cotton of my briefs.

And I had a worse feeling that that would be the last thing I was able to think about coherently for a long time.


	14. Sans Pants

Thank you Fawkes Song for betaing.

I apologize for this taking so long to write. Now that my thesis is done, I can finally get back to fun writing. Those of you still interested in this story – enjoy.

------

I squeezed my eyes shut and clutched two handfuls of cover. I heard the whoosh high about me, and then I felt the hairbrush slam into my bottom.

"Bruce!" I cried out.

"Not a word," he warned me. "Not one word out of you." Another swat, and I burst into tears.

Bruce swung again, and I clutched the covers with both open fists. There was nothing I could do at this point except try to bear it out.

I hate spankings! I hate them with a passion. I don't like bending over to present Bruce with a better target. I don't like having to hold myself still. I don't like listening to Bruce's hand or the hairbrush swing through the air, and I do not like the pain at all. It stings and it aches, and it's horrible.

I hate having Bruce yell at me, but spanking takes that guilt to somewhere far away that I can't control. I get all nervous and jumpy, and my eyes sting, and I start crying like a baby when he starts swinging.

But compared to other punishments, at least spankings don't last that long. He's never spanked me to the point of actually hurting, and it's better than being grounded or restricted from the TV or video games. Spankings are awful, but at least they get over with quickly. In the past weeks, I had been grounded and now I would have to do the chores as part of my punishment. I wondered if I could ask Bruce to wallop me for everything bad so it could just be all over.

More than the groundings or the spankings, I hate for him to be mad at me. I want him to like me – I want us to be friends. I want him to see me as a partner, and I want him to treat me like an adult. I'm thirteen. That's practically grown-up.

"You've got to learn to think before you jump into action," Bruce lectured as he paddled. "What if you had gotten hurt out there?"

"I'm Robin. I can take care of myself," I squirmed.

"Like you did when the Joker kidnapped you?" Bruce and his horrible logic kept going as did the spanking.

"He didn't get loose this time. If I'm old enough to help you fight crime, I'm old enough to go out by myself."

"I might consider letting you go out in the city in the daytime for a while as long as I knew where you were. But disappearing at night and going into the city and leaving Alfred here to worry. Dick, I swear you make me want to pull out my hair!"

Bruce walloped me twice and then he sat down on the bed.

I looked at him through tear-filled eyes, confused, but I didn't have much time to think about what was happening because he pulled me over his lap, securing my legs between his as he angled my body for more discipline. He began applying his open hand to my bottom, thwacking firmly over my underwear.

I no longer had to worry about holding myself still so I let go. I thrashed and bellowed and yelled out absurd things.

"Stop it, Bruce! I'm too old. You already spanked me with the hairbrush. Bruce! Why do I have to get spanked? I wasn't even that bad!"

"Rethink that," Bruce advised, snatching up the hairbrush and whacking my bottom with it.

"OOOWWWW!" I squalled. "Ow, that's too much. You're supposed to be punishing me, not killing me."

"Quiet down," Bruce scolded. "You can take a spanking."

"That's easy for you to say. You're not the one getting it."

"My arm gets tired eventually," he popped me several more times.

"I'm supposed to feel bad about that?" I shrieked.

"Yes. If a spanking doesn't get through that stubborn head of yours, maybe you'll think about how hard this is for me and you'll behave."

Bruce was impossible. Maybe insane, too, but definitely impossible. Why was I the one stuck with him? Why did I have to be his partner and the one he watched all the time and the one he punished and trained and lectured and scolded?

"You've got to be done soon," I hollered.

"I'm not stopping until you sound repentant," he returned.

I gave into tears then. I let out a primitive scream (he had been spanking me for a while by then) and I let the tears just come.

He delivered two more swats and then he pulled me up.

I should have accepted whatever he thought I needed to comfort me. I should have sat on his knee and taken the hug and whatever he wanted to tell me and then let him put me to bed. And had this been the end of my punishment, I might have done it, but I knew I had more coming the next day and I hated being punished and Bruce thinks he's God, sometimes, and he isn't.

So, I did what I really wanted to do. I drove a fist into his stomach, and when he gasped in surprise, I bolted for the bathroom. I locked the door behind me and waited.

The mirror showed my reflection. My face was streaked with tears and looked pathetic. My hair was all over the place, and I had no pants on, and I looked about six years old.

"Dick," Bruce said from the other side, "you open this door right now, or there's going to be trouble."

I didn't do anything.

"You have five seconds to unlock this door or else," Bruce bellowed.

I stood still, shaking slightly.

"One!"

I needed a way out. I glanced around and saw the window.

"Two!"

I scampered over to the window and unlocked it.

"Three!"

I pushed the window up and I climbed out. Bruce is really dumb. When you give people a chance to think, they never do what you want them to do. Instead, they panic and take matters into their own hands.

"Four!"

I climbed up on the roof, clinging to the sloping eaves and gables, tucking my body close to the brick and shingles.

"Five!"

In the bathroom below, there was a terrific crash, and I heard the door slam on the floor.

A second of silence, then Bruce roared, "Richard Grayson! You get yourself back in here right now!"

I climbed up to the roof. I had no idea where I was going, but I knew I had to get away from him. I would climb off the other side of the manor and I would run to the woods. I had no idea where I would go after that, but I planned to turn rogue, just to show Bruce. I would apprentice myself to some villain, and I would tell him all of Batman's secrets, and we would kidnap the Dark Knight and put him in a hanging cage, just where a bat belonged. He would have to watch while the villain and I began to rule the world, and then Bruce would be sorry.

I made it to the top of the manor. The view was incredible. I could see the lights of Gotham in the far distance, bright and glowing against the night sky. I crept over to the other side and shimmed down the side of the manor. As I hit the ground and started running, two things hit me at once. One was how much my bottom hurt. Bruce had been more than thorough, as usual. The second thing was how cold my legs were without pants. I would have to find pants somewhere. I couldn't easily go to a villain and be taken seriously without pants.

I heard yells behind me as I raced across the lawn; they had spotted me. I jumped and pulled myself up over the stone wall and jumped over to the other side.

It was late by now, past midnight, and the woods around Wayne Manor were almost black. I hesitated for a second, and then I plunged ahead.

I'm a fast runner so I pushed myself to keep going, ignoring the branches and leaves that scraped at my bare legs. I finally stopped once I was deep enough in the woods.

The trees looked haunted, and I felt like eyes were watching me. I spun around several times, trying to convince myself that I was alone. I had watched The Village a while ago (another movie snuck past Bruce), and that stupid red monster thing had scared me a little. I had laughed it off in the den of the manor, but here in the middle of the woods at night, I was terrified at the idea of meeting that thing. What if I looked around a tree, and it was standing there, watching me?

I backed up, and I had the awful thought of backing into it. I'd seen that in movies before. The guy looked around a tree, trying to find the monster or the killer, and the guy sees nothing. You relax for a second, and the guy turns around to find the thing right behind him and it's the worst surprise ever.

I whimpered slightly. With all the bravery I could muster, I turned around.

Nothing but trees, empty except for the mist rising. Why, oh, why did there have to be fog tonight?

I turned back the other way. Still nothing.

Just when I was about to relax, I heard leaves rustle behind a huge oak tree. I crept forward, slowly looking around the tree. Nothing there.

I gulped down air and turned around.

Bruce was standing right behind me.

I screamed in terror, and then I promptly burst into tears. I stood there, shaking and bawling and trying to calm myself down.

"Good grief," Bruce snapped at me. "All that training, and this is how you react to a threat? We have a lot to work on."

He reached for me, and I jumped back.

"No!" I shrieked. "No!"

I turned and started running. I had been so scared I was slightly dizzy, but I wasn't going to let Bruce get me. I made it about ten wild steps, and then something whizzed around my torso. It trapped my arms to my side, and I tripped, sprawling on the bumpy ground of the woods. It hurt, and I started crying harder.

I realized that he had flung two batarangs at me, attached to opposite ends of a sturdy twine of rope. It had tied around me, and I couldn't get my arms free.

I struggled, but I saw black shoes stop inches from my face. Strong hands grabbed me and pulled me up to my feet. I stared at Bruce for a second, still crying, and he slung me over his left shoulder, wrapping his left arm over the back of my knees as I leaned over his shoulder, my arms still pinned to my side.

"No, Bruce," I squirmed. "Don't take me back."

"If you think I'm going to let you live in my woods without pants, you are crazy," he replied.

"Then let me down to walk."

"You lost the privilege of walking."

That was insane. Since when was _walking_ a privilege? I twisted to get free.

"Richard," Bruce's voice cut through the wood, "you will stop squirming, or so help me, I will cut a switch and use it all the way home."

No doubt about it – I had been caught by the scariest thing in the woods. I had never had Bruce use a switch on me, but I doubted I would like it. I let my body go limp.

He strode through the woods, carrying me like I weighed nothing. I got angry but there was no use in throwing a tantrum here. I couldn't plot revenge either. Bruce was stronger than I was. He was bigger, older, smarter, quicker – everything better than I was. He had me beat – clear and simple. I lost; he won. I couldn't do anything except accept it.

No matter how far I would run, he would catch me. I belonged to him. I was his ward, and he wouldn't rest until I gave everything up to him.

The unfairness of it all hit me, and I started crying again, but this time quietly. I lay over his shoulder watching my tears fall onto the dirt as he strode back to the manor. Once I saw the dirt turn into grass, I knew we were close. The grass became a path, and then a stone walk. I saw stairs beneath his shoes followed by a hard-wood floor, more stairs, and finally the rug of my bedroom.

He set me down to stand on the floor and set to work loosening the ties around my torso. I felt tears roll down my cold cheeks, and I was so tired I would have fallen into the bed without protest.

The batarang dropped to the floor, and then Bruce sighed as he looked at me.

"I would rather fight every villain in Arkham right now than have to do this with you," he said.

I had no idea what he meant so I stayed silent, tears still rolling down.

"This is impossible," he ran a hand through his hair. "You're impossible, Dick. I don't know what to do. I'm trying to be consistent with you, but I'm in way over my head here. I punish you, and you act worse. I let something go and you get into even more trouble. You don't even react the same way after I spank you. One day you hug me forever, and the next you jump out the window and I have to chase you through the dark woods. Do you really hate me that much?"

I blinked, sending more tears down my face. "What?"

"I want to be good to you, Dick, I really do, but I'm starting to think that you'd be better off with someone else. It's dangerous what I do, and I put you in danger, but if you hate me the rest of the time –"

"I don't hate you," the words came out before I even knew what I was going to say. "I've never hated you."

"You're going to have to help me out here," Bruce looked really shook up. "I don't know what it's like. My parents died before I was your age, and Alfred did a good job raising me, but he still wasn't my father. When my parents were still alive, I ran away a few times, but I always came back when I reached the end of the drive, mainly because I wasn't allowed to go beyond the end. As a teenager, I stole one of the cars and stayed away for two days, and Alfred went crazy. When I came back, he took my license and cut off my allowance for six months, and I knew right then that he meant business."

I watched him, not sure where he was going.

"Do you want to go back to foster care?" he asked. "Is it so horrible here that you want to leave?"

"No, no, Bruce! I love you," I confessed. "You're my dad now, and I belong here with you."

He looked away and when he turned his head back, I saw his eyes shining with tears.

I ran forward and threw my arms around him. I hugged him tight, taking comfort in his strength. He hugged me back, and we stood there for a minute, finally understanding each other.

I pulled back and gave him a shaky smile.

He smiled back at me. "There's my boy."

I basked in the joy that overwhelmed me, and I loved him so much at that moment I thought my heart would burst.

"Thanks, Bruce," I smiled fully.

"Good boy," he smiled.

Then he reached forward so fast I didn't have time to react. He tucked me against his side and spanked me.

"Ow, Bruce," I complained.

"You try the patience of a saint!" he declared. "You're getting twenty for that little stunt and then I'm going with you into the bathroom to watch you brush your teeth, and then you're going to bed. If you fight me at all, I'm making you sleep in my bedroom, on the floor!"

"Jerk," I growled though I didn't struggle. "I don't want this."

"Behave yourself then," he kept spanking and I took it, this time not as angry.

Once he was done, he stood me up to face him.

"You can either let me hug you or you can go brush your teeth without a hug, but if you ever punch me again after I discipline you, I will spank you again the next night."

Like I said, there was no winning against Bruce. But I was too tired and cried-out to care, and I hugged him again, letting him rub my back for a few seconds.

Five minutes later, I was in my bed as he pulled the covers over me. The clock beside my bed read 1:57.

"Where's Alfred?" I yawned.

"I sent him to bed," Bruce said. "I said I could find you, and I promised him that he could punish me if I didn't find you and bring you back."

"You wouldn't let him punish you," another yawn. I was having trouble keeping my eyes open.

"No, I wouldn't," Bruce agreed, sounding a little too sure of himself.

"Are you going to treat me like a kid tomorrow?" I asked.

"Oh, yes, and I'm not letting you out of my sight," he promised, again sounding like he was enjoying himself too much.

"That's mean," I pouted though I could barely move my face muscles.

"Maybe some meanness will knock some sense into your head. Where were you going out there without any pants?"

"I was going to find a villain who would take me on as a partner."

Bruce laughed suddenly.

I pried my eyes open to glare at him. "What? I would have given them all your secrets and worked to defeat you for good."

"Oh, Dick," Bruce grinned broadly, "if you did that, my enemies wouldn't stand a chance. I should do that – loan you out for a few weeks to them. They'd be ruined in no time."

"I'm a good fighter," I scowled at him. "I would make a good bad guy."

Bruce laughed again. "I'm just remembering you with the Riddler. You drove him up a wall. I wonder how you'd do with Poison Ivy or Mad Hatter."

"Keep laughing at me and you'll find out," I threatened.

"Nope," he brushed my hair back from my forehead. "You belong here with me. You're my Robin, and not anyone else's. Go to sleep. Get out of this bed before morning, and I'll make you scrub all my cars with a toothbrush."

There had to be something smart I could retort to that, but I was so tired, I just glared at him. My bed felt very warm, and my last coherent thought was that Bruce was an all right guy once you got past all his side-comments and spankings.

-----

I got to sleep well into the next morning, but I knew right away that it would be an awful day. Down in the kitchen, Bruce was reading the paper and drinking coffee, but I sat down to a breakfast of oatmeal with raisins arranged in a smiley face on top.

I glowered, but I didn't say a word as I picked up my spoon and ate. I had a large glass of milk by my plate and the oatmeal wasn't very sweet, but the worst part about the breakfast was the fact that it wasn't that different from a regular breakfast. I don't get smiley faces, but Alfred serves a lot of oatmeal, and he's always after me to drink more milk.

"Drink all of it – growing boys need milk," Bruce said without looking up from his paper.

I thought about flipping him the bird – that was something I didn't know about when I was seven. But I had made up my mind to just take it. The day couldn't last forever, and I did want to go patrolling with Batman tonight, so I had to brave out this second punishment.

After breakfast, he insisted that I follow him into his study. I had the awful thought that he might have rigged up some giant playpen to keep me in, but I guess seven-year-olds don't stay in playpens because his study looked normal.

"Sit on the sofa and read this to me," he handed me a book from his desk.

It was the Nutcracker, all bright and pink with some dumb girl on the front looking all excited over a nutcracker. Bruce had dragged me to the ballet every Christmas, and I hated the whole thing because the music gets stuck in your head and you end up humming that opening number all Christmas. Last year, I pitched a fit at having to go, and Bruce said I could go along pleasantly or he was signing me up to play Fritz the next year. I couldn't imagine playing the dumb little brother to Clara, but Bruce said that ballet was good for toning my body so I didn't push it. I went to the play and pretended to like it, and Bruce didn't threaten ballet again.

Christmas was only a couple months away, so I hastily opened the book to the open page. The writing on the page was split into two sections, the top being English and the bottom being Russian. I think the guy that designed the music for the ballet was Russian, so I guess the book had both because of that.

Just to revenge myself a little, I decided to read the Russian. My parents used to read stories to me in Russian, and I recognized most of the letters.

"_It was Christmas Eve,"_ I read in Russian, "_and the children waited in the front hall for the Christmas Tree to_-"

"What are you doing?" Bruce interrupted.

"You told me to read," I answered, trying not to sound too sassy. "You didn't say which part to read."

Bruce stood up and came to stand right in front of me. "You know Russian?"

I nodded. "Yes, my parents said their parents were Cold War immigrants."

"You know Russian?" Bruce repeated, looking amazed. "You can read Russian? Can – can you write it?"

"Sure," I replied.

"Sure?" Bruce lifted his eyebrows. "You've lived here this long and I never knew you knew Russian? What other languages do you know?"

I shrugged. "A little German and Italian. The circus had people from all over the world, and they taught me different languages. So what?"

"So what?" Bruce looked shocked. "This whole time I thought you were dumb when it came to schoolwork, and now I find out that you can speak all these languages?"

I froze. "You thought I was dumb?"

"All those low grades? Of course I did. I accepted the fact that you would never be a good detective because you'd never have my intelligence, but –"

I launched myself at him. The book tumbled to the ground, but I started pounding on him, lashing out with my fists and feet like a mad man.

"Whoa, whoa!" Bruce tried to fend me off. "I didn't mean it like that. It's just – you've never showed much initiative in school, and after those C's in English –"

"My teacher has it in for me!" I howled. I was ready to beat him to the ground, but he overpowered me, and I found myself with my legs wedged between his as he sat on the sofa, and he had my arms tucked behind my back with my head hanging down.

"Calm down," he advised.

"Like hell," I snarled. "I'm not stupid. I'm not stupid, but you're a jackass."

"Maybe a little," Bruce said. "Why didn't you tell me you knew all these languages? Are – are you bored in school?"

"Of course I'm bored!" I squirmed. "Now let me up and fight me like a man."

"Settle down," Bruce shifted my arms into one of his hands and used his free hand to pat my back like he was calming a wild animal.

That made me even angrier, and I snarled under my breath.

"Do you get bad grades in school because you're bored?" Bruce went on patting me while I imagined horrible ways he could die. "Take a few breaths and tell me the truth."

"The truth," I struggled against his iron hold, "the truth is school teaches me dumb stuff and I'm not going anymore, and I'm going to beat you up once I get free."

"Listen," Bruce lowered his voice a notch, "you can either calm down and sit on this sofa and answer my questions about school or I'm taking you up for your nap early. What's it going to be?"

Impossible! I twisted one last time and then growled, "I'll talk."

He set me up on the sofa, and I couldn't resist giving his shin a kick as I sat up straight.

"None of that," he admonished. "I want the truth from you, Dick. No more fighting with me, no more quarreling. Tell me what's really going on at school, and I mean everything."

I thought about refusing, but it was really the first time that Bruce had ever asked me to share my side of what was going on. He had lectured me endlessly about school and bringing my grades up, but we never had a one-on-one conversation about it, man-to-man, with him really listening.

I took a deep breath.


	15. Testing

AN: Thanks to Fawkes Song for betaing.

B&R&B&R&B&R&B&R&B&R

I looked straight at Bruce and he looked at me.

"School is boring," I finally said. "I don't understand why I have to go all the time. I want to fight crime, like you do. I don't understand why I have to learn how to write essays and book reports. What good is history and social studies? How is geometry going to help decide which weapon to use?"

He said nothing.

"What?" I challenged. "You aren't going to tell me that I need to write because I might have to disguise myself and send warning notes to the police that they can't track back to me? That I'm going to need history so I can figure out backgrounds of places and what's been going on? That I need math to calculate better fighting skills and ways to get somewhere faster?"

He smiled. "You took the words right out of my mouth."

I scowled and feigned another kick at his leg, but I didn't land it. "I hate you."

"I seriously doubt that," he laughed. "You mean to tell me that you haven't been trying in school because you don't think it relates to fighting crime directly?"

"It's boring and all the teachers are morons and I get tired of sitting and listening to them drone on and on. You don't drone when you teach me something. You expect me to get it the first time. If I don't, I get in trouble."

The smile disappeared from Bruce's face. "I'm not that strict. I know you have a learning curve. I just thought maybe you were slacking because I was letting up on you too much."

"When have you ever let up on me?" I gave him an incredulous look. "It's always 'Dick, make better grades.' 'Dick, stop playing around.' 'Dick, if you don't shape up, it's going to be trouble.'"

He eyed me for a moment, and I couldn't tell if he was amused by my mocking his deep voice or seriously ticked off.

Then he stood and grabbed my arm. "Come with me."

"What about the book?" I asked as we went out into the hall. "I wasn't done."

He said nothing, and I felt worried.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to kick you. I didn't mean to be disrespectful."

"We're way past disrespect now," he replied, but his voice was blank.

I was still slightly sore from getting spanked so much last night that I pulled back a little, but Bruce was so strong that he pulled me forward without even realizing it. We went down to the Batcave, and he pushed me down in one of the chairs in front of the computer screens.

"Computer on," Bruce commanded.

"Good morning," the computer's female voice said. "Load map of Gotham?"

"No, I want you to create a program to test the aptitude of a seventh grader," Bruce replied. "Start with the easiest questions and gradually get harder until it reaches college level."

"Bruce –" I tried to interject.

He ignored me. "Include the following subjects – English, math, history, science, and European languages. Arrange the questions in oscillating ascension."

"Confirmed." The computer began flashing screens so fast that I couldn't make out a single one. "Minutes to completion – 3 minutes and 12 seconds."

"I don't want to take a test," I grumbled as I slumped down in the chair.

"Believe me it's better than what I had planned for you," Bruce opened a side drawer and began rummaging through it.

"I was going to read the Nutcracker book. That wasn't so bad."

"Yeah, but at the end of the day, I was planning to make you wash the drive in front of the manor."

"That's not so bad either."

"With a toothbrush and a cup of water."

"Are you sure you're not a villain?"

He chuckled and pulled a pen, notepad, and ruler from the drawer. He set them all down in front of me.

"Four hours," he said. "You start the program and you answer the questions. You can use the pen and pad for scratch paper. The questions will get progressively harder. For each question you answer wrong, the computer will repeat the same level of question, but a different one. For every one you get wrong, you get a swat with the ruler."

My mouth fell open. "But – but that's not fair. That's cruel and evil."

"Unfortunately for you, I've noticed that you only try your hardest when there is some kind of peril to your person or to me. So rather than have you goof off in here all day, I'll make sure you try your hardest."

My eyes stung and I wanted to start crying, but then something rose inside me, something that would not let me break. Bruce would not win, not this time. He could torture me all he liked, and I would take it because I was just as strong a superhero as he was. I could take a few swats with a ruler – I could take a hundred, two hundred!

"Bring it on," I said, my voice steady and my eyes hard.

He almost smiled.

"Ready to begin," the computer said.

Bruce leaned over the keyboard and pushed a key. A question flashed on the screen: In the sentence, _Often seen as tyrant, Caesar promoted his own ideology about Rome over the established hierarchical rule, _what grammatical function does _Rome_ play?

Underneath there were four choices: a. Subject, b. Intransitive verb, c. Preposition, d. Object of the Preposition.

I hesitated, my stomach tight with the fear I would get my first question wrong. I read each of the answers again.

"If you take longer than a minute to answer a question, it will be counted wrong."

"Son of a bitch," I hit the d. answer.

He laughed and affectionately tousled my hair. "I should soap out your mouth again, but you got that one right so I'll let it slide for now."

Another question had come up, and I protested, "It doesn't even tell me if I get it wrong?"

"Nope. You won't find out until the end."

"Can I call you a bastard?"

He laughed – he was always in a good mood when he made me completely miserable – and clapped his hands down on my shoulder firmly. "Get to work. I'll come over and check on your progress in a little while. I'm going to put some more features on your motorcycle."

I felt torn between smiling at him and throwing the pen and paper at him as he walked away. Bruce is uniquely Bruce – no one can argue that he doesn't do things his own crazy way.

I went to the next question: 4x – 7x + 24 = 0. Solve for x.

I reached for the pen and paper just to make sure I got the math right.

B&R&B&R&B&R&B&R&B&R

I did okay for the first hour, but the second hour the questions got harder and I got tired. Bruce paused the program after two hours and gave me some kind of disgusting healthy drink to help boost my energy. I made a face, but I gulped it down and returned to the questions.

The third hour went a little better though the questions were definitely high school level. I got all the language questions correct; by the third hour they were all complete sentences in different languages rather than single words to be translated. I must have been answering other subjects right a little at least because the math ones began to have symbols I didn't recognize and the English ones had moved to literature questions on books I hadn't read yet. I kept answering the best I could, forcing myself to concentrate.

Hour four was the marathon push. I was sleepy from my late night and I had to pinch my arm over and over again to keep myself from dozing off. Even the fear of the ruler didn't have enough power to wake me up fully. Yawning, I kept answering questions, but I felt I was getting most of them wrong.

It hurt to think as I stared at the time, 3:54, and I wished I were smarter. Barbara would still be awake, I felt certain, though I didn't like the idea of her being in my shoes and getting threatened with the ruler. I wondered if Barbara ever got punished. It wasn't fair, somehow, somewhere, something about not being fair . . .

"Dick," something shook my shoulder.

"What?" I sat up, blinking stupidly. "What's going on?

"The test is over," Bruce said quietly. "I want you to come lay down on the sofa for a while. I'm going to keep working on the bike."

I nodded and I let him help me out of the chair. I stumbled across the top level of the cave to the sofa. Bruce had built a nook of three walls to keep the damp and the bats out, and the sofa was just as comfortable as the ones in the manor. I collapsed on it and he covered me up with a quilt and turned the floor heater on.

I wanted to tell him that he didn't have to, that I could take the cold and whatever else he dished out, but I just closed my eyes and let myself drift back into exhausted sleep.

When I woke up later, he was still working on the bike. I turned off the heater and went over to watch him work.

"Hey, Sleeping Beauty," he grinned at me. "Finally woke up? I put smoke deflectors on the back of the bike. You flip this switch," he touched a small black switch underneath the right grip, "and smoke shoots out of the back, enough to cover you for a mile at 35mph. And these buttons here will shoot lines out from the back wheels so you could go around a streetlamp and use the centripetal force to swing you back in the opposite direction, 180 degrees without stopping. And the front wheels have grenade launchers. But you are not allowed to tell Alfred about any of these improvements, ever."

I opened my mouth to ask why even put them on if we had to hide them from Alfred, but I decided against it. One more weird thing about Bruce – he'd skin me alive if I tried to deceive Alfred, but then he sneaks around and does all sorts of things Alfred would never allow. Adults make no sense.

"Not too bad for an afternoon of work," Bruce stepped back to admire his handy work, wiping his hands on a dirty cloth. "I got a few more things to tinker with. But I still think it's ready to take out on the road tonight, provided you practice a few times early this evening."

My mouth dropped open as I stared up at him. "But . . . the test . . .?"

"Oh, I got it right here," Bruce grabbed a few pieces of paper. "You answered 367 questions. Good, solid pace."

I braced myself for the results.

"You got 276 questions right, 91 wrong."

I felt sick. How could I take 91 swats at once? No way I could do that, no way at all.

"The tests say that given your responses, you should be doing early high school work."

He turned to me with an odd sort of delight on his face, but I could only think of 91 swats.

"Should I go get it? The ruler?" I swallowed hard.

"No, Dick, you're not getting it. High school! You're smart. The program said that you don't apply yourself enough, but that you're really smart."

"Yeah, but you said – "

"The ruler? Oh, forget that. That was just to make you concentrate. You did it, you won the program."

I should have felt relieved, but I felt only anger. "You asshole!" I snarled at him, trying to punch him in the face.

Bruce grabbed me, swung me around, and caught my head under one huge arm. He roughly tousled my hair, laughing. "You've got to stop swearing, or I'll make you eat a bar of soap. But I'm just so happy. You don't know how happy this makes me."

He released me, and I dealt him my best death stare. "So you wouldn't be happy if I turned out to be stupid?"

"Oh, I'd like you either way, but you being smart makes it much easier," he grinned a mouthful of white teeth. "First thing Monday morning, we're going down to your school and I'm getting them to run a battery of tests on you. I want you in high school by the end of the week."

"No, I'm not leaving middle school," I crossed my arms. "You can't make me."

The delighted expression turned stern. "You get anything less on the tests at school, and I'll make those 91 swats a reality."

"But I can't leave. I don't want to leave all my friends."

"You don't have any friends."

I flinched, and immediately Bruce protested,

"No, no, I didn't mean it that way. I just meant that you're always complaining about school. You keep saying the kids are immature and dumb and teasing you –"

"And high school kids are better?"

Bruce hesitated. "Well, no, but Dick, you have to be at the place where they will challenge you. Otherwise, it's bad grades all over the place. A little incentive, and you show your true potential." He held up the papers, the concrete proof that I could do better.

"But I don't want to say goodbye to Barbara," I hemmed.

Bruce considered this as well. "How about a compromise? You take the tests, and we put you in the advanced eighth grade classes. You stay in the same school with the same people, but you take harder classes. Sound fair?"

"We don't even know if they'll let me move . . ."

"They will, trust me," Bruce nodded.

He was right. No one said no to Batman, and most people didn't have the nerve to say no to Bruce Wayne either.

"Fine," I sighed.

"Good. Now get the Nutcracker book and bring it down here. Read to me while I add another coat of sealant to the bike. I want this bike to withstand a semi truck T-boning it without getting scratched."

"Something else to not tell Alfred," I muttered as I headed for the lift.

I sat to the side of the cave for an hour, reading the Russian in the book and then translating it for Bruce, occasionally pointing out where the English translation underneath didn't quite match the Russian above. Each time that I noted a mistake, Bruce wore this goofily happy look. I would have found his approval annoying except that it was great to have him so ecstatic over something I was doing.

"I don't like the story," I finally reached the end of the book and closed it. "Stories that end up being a dream are always a let down. You think it's all exciting and fun only to discover that it's all in someone's head. Why couldn't the story end with Clara staying in the magic land? Why does she have to go back to her boring home where the prince is a wooden doll?"

"Maybe because her family would miss her?" Bruce straightened and set his wrench on the wood table.

"What family? An annoying brother who breaks her toys, dumb parents who let it happen, and a creepy godfather who seems a little too interested in the young girls at the party."

"All right, put the weird book down," Bruce was still smiling. He slapped the seat of the motorcycle. "Time to start riding."

I nearly flung the book off the balcony and down to the second level in my dash to get to the bike.

B&R&B&R&B&R&B&R&B&R

Alfred stood at the doorway of the manor, shaking his head as Bruce got me situated on the bike. I had to wear a helmet, but due to Alfred's dour looks, Bruce had put me in a bulky sweatshirt and strapped elbow- and kneepads on as well. Rather than feeling cool and badass, I felt like a five-year-old learning to ride a bike without training wheels.

Bruce took far too long to adjust the grips, the pedals, the seat, and the mirrors. He seemed to take extra precautions because Alfred was watching, but I just wanted to ride.

"Please, Bruce, can't I go? The driveway's flat and round. Let me do a loop, then you can fix stuff."

"Almost done," Bruce promised. He tightened one more bolt and then slipped the tool in his pocket. "Turn the gas to On and step down on the clutch hard to start it."

I stepped down hard, and the engine sprung to life, the motorcycle rumbling underneath me. I grinned like I was high on the Joker's toxin.

"Now slowly turn the handle to go faster," Bruce instructed. "You'll be in second gear and then step on the gas pedal easily."

I did so, and the motorcycle pulled away from the front stairs.

"Make a slow loop around the driveway."

I meant to obey Bruce, I really did. But as I drove the motorcycle, I felt something come alive in me, a need for power and speed and everything cool a motorcycle had to offer. Halfway around the drive, I turned the gear up to fourth and hit the gas. I was flying – nothing could stop me – I was invincible!

I let a wild yell like I was Tarzan as the wind whipped at my face around the helmet. Bruce and Alfred had disappeared, but I kept going and going and –

The stone wall came up all of a sudden, and I tried to turn, but I skidded off the driveway. The bike yanked away from me, and I tumbled to a halt in the soft dirt of the flowerbeds. I lay there for a second before Bruce picked me up.

"Is anything broken?" Alfred looked frantic as he ran up.

"Nah, he's fine, "Bruce set me on my feet though I swayed slightly.

"Look at my wisteria beds! He practically broke those two right in half because he wasn't listening to instruction. That blasted bike will be the end of it, I promise you. No good will come of it –"

Bruce sighed at Alfred's tirade, and he turned me to the side and swatted me hard across the seat of my jeans. He walloped me two more times, enough to make me holler, and then pointed to the bike. "Get the bike and take it back to the front stairs. We'll try this again, and any more goofing around will lead to serious trouble."

I did as he asked, trying to ignore the slight sting. I had been reckless, and I made sure I looked repentant and chastised under Alfred's grim eyes as I brought the bike. I stood it up on the kickstand and started brushing dirt off it.

"Sorry about your bushes," I said in a low voice. "I didn't mean to ruin anything."

"Of course, I'm more worried about you than the plants," Alfred insisted. He couldn't resist fussing over me, brushing off the dirt on my clothes and adjusting the protective wear while Bruce checked over the bike. "You must be careful, young sir. I will not have you putting yourself into unnecessary danger. There's already someone here who does enough of that."

He glared at Bruce, but Bruce had wisely taken that moment to duck down to align the wheels on the bike.

"Good as new," Bruce came back up once Alfred had stopped fussing over me. "Now, are you ready to try again without running into walls?"

I nodded and swung back over the bike. Bruce started the bike again, but Alfred stayed near as the bike roared to life again.

"If I get good at this," I asked, quite casually, "can I ride it on a tightrope?"

"It will be the last thing you do," Alfred burst out.

"No talking," Bruce put the bike into gear. "Just drive in slow circles. Get a feel for the machine. Feel it move, Dick, take it slow."

I edged away from them, this time paying close attention to my bike, the machine that would give Robin wings.


	16. Adults

I got better at the motorcycle the longer I rode on it. Bruce made me wait until he got home from work every day before I could practice, but I did everything right so he would let me ride as much as possible. The bike had a feel to it – I knew when it ran smoothly and when it choked up, when it turned easily and at what angle was too sharp, when to rev up and when to slow down.

My life would have been perfect except for two things: school and the approaching Black and White Ball. True to his word, Bruce drove me in Monday morning with the intent of requesting that I get moved up a grade. On the way there, I begged him not to.

"Let me stay in my classes one more week. Just one more week. I don't want to move."

"Don't argue," Bruce slowed down in the traffic. "I need you to be where you're getting challenged, not goofing off because you're bored. You're smart and you should be giving your full potential to your classes. It's like gearing up to fight the Joker – you have to be prepared and at the height of your game. If I was goofing off before, he would have killed me."

I didn't see how Batman fighting the Joker had anything to do with me and school, so I just turned my head and rolled my eyes where he couldn't see me.

His cellphone rang and he answered it. "Bruce Wayne . . . oh, hey."

His voice softened – he was talking to a girl.

I reached in my bookbag and pulled out an MP3 player and headphones. I didn't want to hear him get all mushy and lovey-dovey with some girl. Other than Selina, he sometimes saw Vicki Vale and Julie Madison. They were both okay, I guess, but I didn't want to hear him talking.

Traffic was slow, and we inched past a computer store with all kinds of new gadgets in the window. Mac had a new notebook out; Xbox360 had two new games.

Bruce had ended his conversation, and I pulled off my headphones. "Bruce?"

"Mmm?"

"When can I have more allowance?"

"You get plenty in allowance, and you're not getting any while you're grounded."

So that was still going on. "I know – I get an allowance for acting right, but I'm thirteen. I should get more than fifteen dollars a week which I've never gotten."

"Go a week with behaving and you will."

"But you adopted me, right? Why can't I have lots of money like you?"

Bruce finally looked at me. "What do you need money for? You have everything you need."

"Sometimes I might like to buy something I don't need. You get to."

"I'm the adult. I earn the money."

"You didn't inherit it from your father?"

Bruce tightened his jaw. "That has nothing to do with this. And I didn't get to buy anything I wanted at your age. Alfred didn't let me. I had an account set up for little things I needed."

"So can I get an account?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because."

"Because what?"

"Because you would just buy things to annoy me."

"Oh, man," I crossed my arms, "you are such a jerk sometimes."

Instead of getting angry, he actually laughed. "I like keeping a close eye on you. Last time you had money, you took the bus into Gotham and asked out Barbara."

"I did that once. I won't do it again." I looked out the window. "Next time I'll rent a limo."

He laughed again. "Jeez, Dick, you're going to be the death of me. Sixteen dollars a week."

"Twenty," I countered.

"Eighteen."

"Done," I put my hand out, and he shook it with a smile.

"Where do you come up with this stuff?" he asked as we turned into the parking deck of my school. "I never challenged Alfred like you do me. And I certainly never made bargains with my father."

"They weren't as strict as you are with me."

"My father was, sometimes," Bruce pulled the car into the parking space. "I wanted to ride my bike to the end of the driveway, and he said I had to stay where I could see the house."

"How old were you?" I swung out of the car.

"Seven," he admitted. "But I acted much older. I could have handled myself."

"Yeah, right. Oh, please, don't walk in with me. That's so embarrassing."

"Suck it up," Bruce locked the car. "I never fought against my parents walking me into school. I even held Mom's arm, like a gentleman."

"Were you still seven?"

Bruce didn't say anything as we walked into school.

It was so humiliating. Everyone knew Bruce had adopted me, and to be seen in middle school with your dad walking you in was the lowest of the low.

"Hi, Mr. Wayne," Barbara ran up to us with an eager smile. "Dick, my dad said yes."

"Yes?" I blinked.

"To going to the Black and White Ball. He was so mad at me for going out – I thought he would explode. But I got permission and he said if I don't step a toe out of line all week, he'll even let me get a dress."

She was practically bouncing up and down on her toes.

Bruce sighed. "All right, which two classes do you guys have together?"

"English and social studies," Barbara answered.

"You can keep those classes," Bruce told me. "You two go to class. I need to talk to the office."

"Are you in trouble?" Barbara walked with me down the hall. "I was worried that Bruce would take your head off once you dropped us off."

"It was a long night," was all I would admit.

"Gosh, I'm so excited about the Ball," Barbara said. "You have no idea how jealous Pamela was when I told her. She was so mad she said it was a stupid party for the lamest people in Gotham. She would do anything to be invited. She shut herself up in her greenhouse all weekend and tended to her plants, like that was going to make her feel better. Jeez, there's the bell."

Bruce never told me what happened in the office, but by Tuesday my classes had been changed. I didn't even have to take an admissions test. The advanced classes were harder, but it was kind of cool to be with the older kids.

The new classes had more homework, and the week flew by until Friday evening.

When Bruce got home, I had all my homework done, my room clean, and everything perfectly in order.

"Alfred's going out tonight," Bruce said as way of greeting as he came in the side door.

"He's not going to play com-man for us out on patrol?"

Bruce didn't quite look at me. "No, and we can't patrol tonight. I got to go to Metropolis for something, as Batman."

"But Bruce -!"

"I know, I know – you want to take the bike out on patrol. You just need a little more practice. We can go out tomorrow night."

"Okay," I agreed.

"But tonight," he gave me a meaningful look, "tonight I need to know if I can leave you alone without you doing something crazy."

"I won't take the bus into the city," I promised.

"This is your last chance," Bruce held up a warning finger. "You blow this, and I will not leave you here again. I'll get a babysitter."

My face turned red. "You wouldn't!"

"I would."

"Guys my age don't have babysitters – we are babysitters. I'm thirteen. I'm not some dumb little kid. I won't leave the property."

"You better not," Bruce warned. "I would drop you off at Commissioner Gordon's for the evening, but he's out of town."

"I don't need to be watched. This is why we fight so much – you treat me like a child."

"You act like a child," Bruce looked tired.

"Because you treat me like one!"

"Ugh," he moved towards the stairs, "everything's an argument here."

An hour later, he laid down the law for me. "You can watch TV. No ordering pay-per-view. You can find something to eat in the kitchen. Don't eat only sugar. Go to bed before midnight. Don't let anyone in. Don't order pizza. Don't go out of the house. Do not look at anything bad on the computer. Do not go into any chatrooms. Do not give anyone any information. Call me right before you go to bed. I won't be back until two or three. If I find you're still up, you're grounded."

I rolled my eyes.

"Don't roll your eyes," he started for the entrance of the Batcave, but he paused with his hands above the piano keyboards. "Alcohol?"

"I won't touch it."

"Good. The same goes for smoking, drugs, and drinking cough syrup."

"What?"

"I heard some kids do that to get a high," Bruce hit the keys and the wall panel slid open. "Don't drive any of my cars. And above all," he got onto the lift, "do not even think about taking out the bike."

I rolled my eyes one last time. "I promise."

Once I heard the sound of the Batmobile leave the cave, I started in on my fun night. The first thing I did was put on roller-skates and zoom around the marble floor. My skates were plastic so I didn't think they'd hurt the marble, but Alfred doesn't like anyone whizzing around the mansion so I never got to wear skates inside.

I turned up the stereo and blared it through the first floor as I skated around, narrowly missing vases, sculptures, and antique furniture.

I went to the kitchen and found all the sweets I could: donuts, cookies, ice cream, candy, pop tarts, and cake. I ate a few potato chips so I could truthfully say I hadn't eaten only sugar, but then I gorged on the junk food. Pop tarts taste really good in ice cream, and donuts on top of cookies are awesome.

When I felt almost sick from the food, I went into the den to watch TV. I found a movie playing on FX that looked edgy and I flopped on the sofa to watch it.

I must have dozed off because I jerked awake with the ringing of the phone. I stared at it. Bruce hadn't said anything about answering the phone. Our number is unlisted, but still . . .

The machine came on, and our message played.

"Dick? Are you there?"

I skated over to the phone and picked it up. "Hey, Bruce."

"Is everything okay?" the odd static was in the background. He was calling from the Batmobile.

"Yeah, I'm about to go to bed."

"Good. I'll be there in a few hours. Will you be okay going to sleep alone in the house?"

"Yeah, I'm not a baby. I've barely noticed you're gone."

I looked at the clock as I hung up the phone. It was almost eleven. No way was I going to bed now.

I had a thought at that moment. I was good at riding the bike. I was good at roller-skating. How would I be with riding the bike while wearing roller-skates?

Bruce had said to stay inside, and technically the Batcave was connected to the house. Bruce had also said not to take out the motorcycle, and I wasn't. I would ride it inside the Batcave.

Roller-skating in the cave was harder than in the mansion; the stone wasn't as smooth and I bumped so hard that I couldn't get up any speed. Some of the floor was slightly slanted, and I had to fight rolling to the edge and crashing into the railing or even toppling over the railing to the floors below.

I got to the bike and I was fooling around with it and trying to figure out how to step on the gas with roller skates when I thought I heard a sound. The lower level of the cave had a waterfall covering the exit to the road so there was always the pounding of water. I was used to it – I had spent so much time in the cave that I barely noticed the constant falling water. The bats annoyed me sometimes, but they didn't hang around so much now that Bruce had electricity and technology around every square inch.

I ignored the noise and tried to stomp on the pedal to rev the bike on. The wheels spun my foot right off the pedal, and I scowled in frustration as I tried again.

A rumbling filled the cave, and then, two floors below, the Batmobile shot through the waterfall.

I dove off the bike and scrambled to the side of the computer. Bruce had been running computer tests on the bike so it was right next to the multiple screen. I crawled under the desk, into the dark space under the key boards, and sat there waiting with my heart pounding.

I would be in trouble for coming down without him, but I hadn't actually turned it on and I hadn't bothered anything in the cave. At this rate, I could kiss any allowance goodbye forever, but I still had a slight chance of explaining myself though I thought he should have to explain himself for coming back so early.

"You took that curve too tight," Bruce said as the floor lift started to move.

"Oh, typical," a female voice said. "The man's always trying to tell the woman how to drive."

I froze. The voice was familiar though we had never had a female in the cave that I could remember.

"I'm not telling you what to do," Bruce said, and his voice was clear, unlike his Batman growl. "You should be glad I let you drive. No one has ever driven the car but me."

"I know why you let me drive," the woman teased. "I know what you want, what you always want."

"Well, can I get it?" Bruce said in a voice far too amused to promise anything good.

He never talked to me like that, but it was still annoying to hear him joking in the cave where he was usually so strict. But what completely shocked me was the woman's voice. I recognized it – Selina Kyle.

I couldn't even think, want to think, begin to think why Selina would get to enter the cave much less drive the Batmobile, much less know Batman's identity, much less –

They stepped off the lift, and from my hiding position, I could see Bruce with his mask off but with the rest of his costume on.

Beside him with her costume on but her mask also off was Catwoman.

I nearly screamed out loud. Selina Kyle was Catwoman! Catwoman! CATWOMAN! She was a villain, a thief, a bad guy! We had chased her before to get back what she had stolen and she had teamed up with other bad guys before, and now she was walking around the cave in that swaying way of hers like she owned it, and Bruce was just letting it happen.

"You men are all the same," Selina smirked. "One thing on your mind all the time."

"It's not my fault," Bruce grinned at her. Smiling when he should have been tying her up and calling the police! "I let you drive and now I want my reward."

"Isn't doing the right thing reward enough?" she teased, stepping closer. "Don't heroes refuse rewards because they do what they do out of the goodness of their hearts?"

"Hey," Bruce held up his hand with the gloves still on, "no one is forcing you."

"No one forces me to do anything I don't want to," she was in front of him now. "But you can take comfort in the fact that I will only do this for you. No one else, ever."

"Ah, that's hot," Bruce grabbed her and kissed her, spinning her around to sit on the back of the bike. My bike! Catwoman was sitting on the back of my bike.

They kept kissing and groaning and moaning, and I was so embarrassed I wanted to die. Adults were so awful sometimes with their . . . stuff.

Selina stepped off the bike and smiled wickedly. Then she dropped to one knee and pulled her other leg down to kneel in front of him. She gazed up at him like an adoring worshiper.

Then she reached for the belt at his waist to loosen his – his –

I lost it then.

"I don't want to see!" I howled as I scrambled out of my hiding place.

"Dick!" Bruce yelled.

Selina hissed in surprise and leapt backwards up on the bike, teeth bared and back arched.

"My eyes! Don't let my eyes see," I tripped with the skates still on my feet and slid towards the balcony edge.

Bruce was trying to refasten his belt, but he shouted to Selina, "Don't let him fall!"

She might have said something, but I skidded to the edge and fell right off. I saw the ground below me – two floors down – and then arms grabbed me by the ankles.

I dangled for a second and glanced up to see Selina hanging over the edge with her hands on my ankles and Bruce's hands around her ankles. She scowled down at me, and the talons from her own black gloves dug into the jeans just above the top of my skates.

"I should let you fall," she snarled at me.

"Selina," Bruce warned. "Get him up so I can deal with him."

"Let me drop," I whispered to her. Maybe a few broken bones would make him more sympathetic.

She pulled me up with unbelievable strength, and I felt dizzy as I stood in front of them both.

"Are you insane?" Bruce grabbed me and swatted me with his hand. It hurt so bad with his heavy glove on. "You're not supposed to be down here, and you're not supposed to be skating. The edge of the balconies don't have railings!"

"You brought Catwoman here," I struggled to get free. "She's a villain, and you brought her here to our cave."

"Ooo," Selina ducked in front of me, twisting her neck like a cat. "Surprise, surprise. I've been here before."

"Don't taunt him," Bruce frowned, but he didn't try to swat me again.

"How long have you known who she was"?" I looked up at him in dismay. "How long have you known?"

"Oh, just a few," Bruce dropped his head and his voice, "years."

"Years!" I screeched. "Years? And you didn't tell me. You made me be nice to her!"

"I made you be nice to Selina," Bruce corrected. "I never made you be nice to Catwoman. There's a difference."

"You just wanted to have sex with her. You were going to have sex here, maybe on my bike. And you gave me that lecture on sex. You big liar!"

"I think the word you're looking for is hypocrite," Selina looked so smug. "but I don't expect a little boy to know such big words."

I lunged at her, but Bruce kept me back. "Don't rile him up. I swear, you're on thin ice already. I should have dumped you in Arkham after I caught you robbing that retirement home."

"I wasn't robbing the retirement home. I was robbing the millionaire in the home. He had a family heirloom with a rare kind of pearl in it. He wouldn't miss it."

"Stealing is wrong," Bruce said in the kind of voice he uses to tell me to behave.

"Oh, but making bargains for blow jobs is okay?"

"Selina!" Bruce reached down to cover my ears. "Watch your mouth around children."

"Are you going to wash it out with soap if I don't?" she smiled at me. "Yeah, Bruce told me about that. You've been a naughty boy lately."

"You're both about to be in trouble," Bruce shook me as I tried to get at her. "This is my cave and my house and my rules. If you don't get along, no one is going to have any fun."

"Our types of fun are different," Selina prissily fussed with her hair. "Send him to bed and we can have adult time again."

"I think we've had all the adult time I'll get tonight," Bruce sounded grumpy as he hauled me over to the computer chair. "Take off those skates. Were you planning to ride the bike with the skates on?"

"No," I tried to keep my face from turning red. "Who would do such a dumb thing?"

"Hmph," he didn't sound convinced. "Selina, get your stuff out of the car. Go change to regular clothes in one of the nooks."

"Why? I like my costume on."

"The rule is we don't take costumes upstairs in the house."

"You're letting her up in the house?" I was outraged. "But she's evil and –"

"The only reason I'm not tanning your hide right now is because I know this is confusing. I promise when you're older you'll understand what I go through and why I like her."

"You like me?" Selina popped her head out of the Batmobile. "Bruce, you've never said you liked me before. How sickeningly sweet."

"You were going to have sex with someone you don't like?" I tried not to screech again.

"It's adult and complicated," Bruce declared. "And Selina, if you don't shut up, I'm coming over to you next."

"It's the threats I like most," she ducked out of sight into one of the nooks of the cave. "They make me feel all warm inside. Especially with the Batman growl. No one threatens me like you do, Bruce."

"This is a nuthouse," Bruce grabbed my skates.

"I'll never understand you," I glared at him. "And I'll never forgive you if you invite her upstairs. She's going to steal all my stuff."

"If she does, I'll get it back," Bruce reached over me to shut down the cave for the night. "Stay here while I go change."

I crossed my arms and set my mouth in an angry frown while he changed. Selina came out, wearing black jeans and a hoodie with a large leather bag on her shoulder. She pretended not to notice me as she took out a mirror and checked her makeup.

"You're disgusting," I said low enough so Bruce wouldn't hear.

"I'm a grown woman," she snapped the mirror shut. "You're a boy so of course you think I'm gross. Little boys make jokes about sex and boobies and how women look. Then they turn into men and they want to have sex and touch those boobies and drool over how we look."

"I won't do that," I said.

"Oh, but you will," she hooked a pair of hoops into her earlobes. "Girls will go from being gross to being the only thing you want."

"I've kissed a girl before," I boasted. "And a real kiss, not like a kindergarten one."

"Well, eventually you'll want to do more with her. Bruce may be all prim and proper with you, but he's an animal in bed."

"I don't want to hear that," I made a face.

"Good, you shouldn't. People think everyone should be liberal with sex now, but you should think parents having sex is disgusting. Otherwise something's seriously wrong with you. We were about to do something down here that you shouldn't have to see or hear about. It's private between Bruce and me, not you."

Her honesty surprised me. No adult ever talked to me like that.

"You seem to flaunt around a lot," I ventured. I expected her to tell me to be quiet – Bruce would have already changed the topic.

"Sex and sex appeal are different," she slung the bag back over her shoulder. "I'm gorgeous and men see me as an object that they want. I use that want to get what I want. No one treats me like a real person because I'm pretty. Why should I treat them well when I'm constantly looked at with leering eyes?"

It was confusing to understand. Bruce was hanging up the suit and about to come out. I leaned forward and whispered, "Are you like that with Bruce? Does he treat you like that?"

She smiled, almost softly. "Bruce is different. It's always different with him. He doesn't let me pretend or lie or do anything I usually do. I should hate him, but –"

She stepped back as he came out, dressed in normal clothes.

"Are you both playing nicely?" he asked skeptically.

She gave him a brilliant smile but he gave us both an indulgent look.

"Let's go up."

We rode the lift up and got out on the main floor. Bruce took us both to the kitchen to get something to drink. I had forgotten what a mess the kitchen was in after I had ravaged it for junk food.

Bruce frowned at me over the mess, but he made some tea for all of us. Usually, I didn't like tea, but I supposed that if I got to stay up with the adults I had to have what they were having.

We all sat at the table with steaming cups of tea in front of us, and Bruce finally said, "All right, you can ask her one question. And nothing bad or rude or unpleasant."

"How did you become Catwoman?" I asked.

"That's easy," Selina took a sip of tea. "I died. I was pushed from a ten story building. I died upon impact, but cats came and covered my body. When I woke up, I was in the hospital."

She went on to tell us about how she had healed and how she tracked down the people who had tried to murder her. She didn't say what she did to them, but she went on to tell about living as a cat-woman hybrid."

"The hardest part is water," she admitted. "I want to lick myself clean. I have to force myself to take showers and tell myself that my hair won't fall out."

I wanted to laugh, but a beeping sound went off.

Bruce glanced around. "That's my watch. Where's my watch?"

He looked down at his bare wrist and then up at Selina.

She guiltily pulled her bag towards her. "I'm sorry – force of habit. It was such a nice watch."

"No, it's not a nice watch," he said. "It's the watch that connects to the cave and the sensors I have hidden around the city. That beeping says that someone has broken out of Arkham. Give it to me, Selina."

She clutched her bag even tighter, shaking her head.

"Selina," Bruce's tone scared me, "right now."

"No, no!" she cried out. "No, I won't let you go. That was my part in all of this."

"Your part?"

"Yes, I was supposed to keep you away," her lips trembled a little. "I owe Clayface, and he said if I kept you busy tonight, we'd be even. He thought I would lead you on a chase, but I knew I could bring you back here and make love. I grabbed your watch a while ago, but I forgot about it when the kid found us."

"What's Clayface planning?"

"No," two tears spilled down her face, "no, Bruce I won't tell you. I won't ever tell you."

"It's Bane," Bruce stood up. "You only ever get like this when it's Bane."

"No," she jumped up and grabbed his arm, "no, you're not going after them. I'll make you tear me apart before I let you out of this room."

"People are going to get hurt!"

"Then let them!" she was screaming now. "Let them get hurt and save yourself. He broke your back last time. I saw you, lying in that bed. He will kill you this time. I won't let you go."

"Then come with me," Bruce moved up against her. "We can fight him together. I'm stronger with you there – you're deadly with your aim and you can focus on his mask while I subdue him."

Selina dropped her bag on the floor and covered both eyes with her hands. She gave a hoarse sob, but when she finally straightened, her face was set and calm. "We subdue him, but you don't fight him. If he gets too unruly, we call the police to bring in the bombs. They will nuke him before you try to fight him, man to man. That has to be the deal."

"It can be the deal," Bruce nodded. He crouched down to search through her bag for his watch.

Selina looked at me. "And Dick comes too."

Bruce froze. "You're crazy if you think I'm letting him near Bane."

"Not near Bane," she said. "But he can be in the car to alert the police. You have to have him in contact with Alfred. Don't call Alfred until we get close – he told me to never let you near Bane again, and I promised I wouldn't. But I would have promised him anything while you lay in that bed, broken."

Bruce glanced at me, and I just stared back, completely unsure what to do.

"All right," Bruce stood up. "But Selina's going to drive the Batmobile, I'm taking the Batplane, and Dick's on the motorcycle. If we need to get away, we can outride or outfly him on one of those machines."

I still didn't say anything, too sure I was dreaming.

"Your new costume is ready," Bruce said as we got onto the lift. "I had it made and I made the mask myself."

On the second floor of the cave, he took me to a panel built into the wall. With a button pushed, the panel slid back to reveal a green costume with long leggings, a solid breastplate, and cording of black and green. It was the most amazing thing I had ever seen, after the motorcycle. A black face mask hung above the costume.

"The mask has a built-in radio as well as a direct line to Alfred and the police," Bruce said. "I'm only sorry we can't give Robin's first official mission more prestige."

"I'll be fine," I reached to take the costume off the display. "But now the three of us can down Clayface and Bane."


End file.
